


the hazards of love

by SOMNlARl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous timelines, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Ensemble Cast, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Frottage, Game Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Cullen Rutherford & Dorian Pavus.</p><p><i>The Hazards of Love</i> now has a <a href="https://8tracks.com/passeridae/the-hazards-of-love">playlist</a>, check it out if you're interested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/gifts).



> **prompt;** Hey there! I really want to see Cullen taking notice of Dorian and pining after him, but Dorian is in a relationship with Bull (or at least Cullen THINKS he is). Ending can be happy or sad for our dear Commander, though I prefer happy. ;)
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen notices him the moment he stumbles through the doors of Haven and into his arms.

Cullen should have known since the moment the Herald opened the doors to Haven. Despite the massive army marching over the mountains - the thing he probably should have noticed first being the Commander and all - his eyes had quickly come to rest on the stranger, hunched over on the ground, staff strapped to his back. He was breathing heavily although whether out of fatigue or pain it was difficult to say. Cullen took a few steps forward, his sword drawn; this could be a trap after all. He sheathed it again shortly after, this was clearly not one of the rebel mages sent ahead as a spy. His armor did not match this unknown army’s that was bearing down upon them and his appearance - the smooth, dark skin, jet black hair and clear, grey eyes - spoke of a Northerner - _Tevinter_. Just as he reached the mage’s side he threw his staff into the ground, and pulled himself upright then gasped painfully as he spoke. 

“I’m here to warn you. Fashionably late, I’m afraid.” And then, before he could blink, the man had stumbled into his arms. He wasn’t sure who moved first; whether he pushed him back upright or the mage gathered the last of his strength to stand again. Either way, the result was the same; the momentary touch an electric current racing through him and then, the warmth was gone though his hand lingered on the man’s shoulder, resting against the bare flesh exposed by the cutouts in the leather, slightly longer than was decent. It was an odd piece, serving fashion more than function. _Ridiculous!_ he thought, no mage in Fereldan, Orlais or the Marches would be seen dead in such a thing. 

“Mite exhausted. Don’t mind me.” The mage spoke again, his voice soft but strong, like good whiskey. “My name is Dorian Pavus and I bring grave news from Redcliffe.” Cullen hardly heard the rest of his words, only managing to absorb the army of rebel mages which he had already guessed and this Elder One which he most certainly had not. Smoke and ash swirled about them, all he could hear was screaming and the clash of metal. They had larger concerns to worry about; mages everywhere, this venatori Dorian spoke of, the Elder One and his general, Calpernia. 

“Cullen! Give me a plan. Anything!” The Herald’s voice - high and tight, masking a sick swell of panic - jerked him out of his thoughts. He cast about frantically for a strategy, anything that might make this survivable and found nothing. 

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle.” He choked out the words and the Herald nodded, then ran off into a group of enemies, her staff flashing brightly under the clear night skies, the Iron Bull, Sera and Solas close behind her. 

The doors to the Chantry opened as they raced towards it; soldiers, refugees, the injured being helped by those still able to stand. He turned from the woman he was supporting after settling her gently on the stone floor to see Dorian holding onto Chancellor Roderick, scarlet blooming out from the stark white sides of his robes. The mage moved the priest’s arm over his shoulder, bracing him with an unexpected tenderness as he walked him towards an errant chair, leaning him up against the back. Roderick slumped against the wood, his breath ragged in his chest, clearly fighting against immense pain. The man was dying, he realized and Cullen remembered his last words to the priest bitterly, they’d been arguing and he’d mocked him. _The stuff of nightmares_. He regretted the words now despite the man’s continued stubbornness. In another time he might have been different, less obstinate, might have even joined the Inquisition’s cause. A scout ran up to him, words bursting forth. 

“Ser, the Herald wiped out many of the mages with the trebuchet but then…” he faltered, wringing his hands before his chest. 

“What is it, soldier?” His voice was shaky and he cleared his throat softly to get it back under his control. “Report!”

“An archdemon… the trebuchet is destroyed, the village on fire...” the man choked out as he backed away, ducking back out of the doors with his sword drawn. 

Cullen groaned, a hand rubbing at the bridge of his nose and then through his hair as the Herald burst back through the doors. 

“Herald! Our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.” He took a few quick steps forward, advancing across the Chantry. The Herald looked tired, smudged with soot and ash, a gash across her cheek. 

“And such a promising start with the landslide.” Dorian chuckled, a rich, delicate sound that was wholly out of place in their situation. “If only trebuchets remained an option.”

Of course! How had he not thought of that? They had another trebuchet, it only needed aiming before it could take down the mountain. “They are, if we turn them to the mountains above us.” 

The Herald clearly understood his meaning as she argued halfheartedly. “We’re overrun. To hit the enemy we’d bury Haven.”

Cullen gulped as he spoke, a weight settling in the pit of his stomach. “This is not survivable now. The only choice is how spitefully we end this.”

Dorian sprang to his feet and they argued a moment before the mage rebutted, his eyes flashing angrily, “Dying is typically a last resort, not first! For a templar you think like a blood mage!”

He was right, Dorian was. Ever since Kinloch Hold Cullen had been a poor templar, to say the least but still he threw an angry glance at the mage. Old habits die hard and he would not have his vows be mocked, regardless of the fact that he had left them behind to join the Inquisition. He had followed Meredith’s orders, begrudgingly, he knew she had never trusted him fully, always knowing that there were some lengths he would not be willing to go. He had always wanted to be the best but had fallen short, questioning too much.

He glared at Dorian, his patience as thin as the veil that surrounded them, almost grateful when Roderick interrupted them, choking out the words between shallow breaths.

“There is a path. You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage. As I have. The people can escape.” The man pulled himself to his feet, cringing as he unfolded. “She must have shown me. _Andraste_ must have shown me so I could… tell you.” 

Yes. This _would_ work; possibly, if Roderick showed them the way out. This Elder One would hardly know the secret paths of the faithful, they might still survive this. But what of the Herald? He turned to her with a question in his eyes, one he dared not speak aloud and his heart sank as she nodded and ran outside, towards the remaining trebuchet. He directed those in the Chantry to follow Roderick, the man again draped over Dorian’s shoulder out the back of the building.


	2. Chapter 2

They trudged through the snow, slowly, stumbling. The others from the Herald’s party joined them, reporting that the Herald had challenged this Elder One, _Corypheus_ , and fallen beneath the ice in the ensuing fight. They had barely managed to escape with their lives before the mountain fell, burying everything in its path. Cullen swallowed back the fury that rose within him as he imagined the Herald dead, buried under the tons of snow unleashed by the trebuchet - at his suggestion, no less. He cringed as the effort of the day made itself known, a sharp, shooting pain between his eyes where it always came to rest, pulsing down through his neck and coming to rest at the base of his ribs. He blinked heavily, clenching his eyes shut until the throbbing subsided, biting at his lip to still the whimper rising in the back of his throat - they still had much work to do. They marched ever forward, always heading north, the blizzard kept them from any meaningful scouting but Leliana’s people reported clear paths and safe harbors to camp in up ahead. It wasn’t much but it would do for now. Cassandra took up the front and Cullen the rear, shepherding the wounded within their ranks. The throbbing pain in his head returned and he bit it back, swearing under his breath, the Herald was almost certainly dead - this was no time for weakness. Where they were going, no one but Chancellor Roderick could say and he was fading quickly, whispering directions to Dorian who now carried the priest in his arms, a shimmering blue light over the both of them. The mage walked swiftly ahead to the front of the line, meeting Cassandra and pointing through a clearing barely visible through the falling snow. 

They managed to make camp, but just barely. The mages among their ranks were able to spark a few fires and the tents were set up despite the ice falling from the sky. Once the wounded were situated, healers hovering over them offering what little help they could, Cullen stumbled into the next available tent and fell heavily onto the soft furs placed to shield the sleeper from the frozen ground, his head pounding. A small fire flickered in the corner but he hardly felt it, still shaking from the trek across the Frostbacks, freezing despite the warmth from the flames, his nose running from the cold - he rubbed at it with his palm, wishing for a handkerchief. He knew he was lucky to feel the chill at all, too many did not survive this, but still he pulled at the blankets, dragging them high over his shoulders. Even with the extra layer he shivered but was nearly asleep when he heard the rustle as the flaps serving as doors to the tent parted. 

“Room for one more?” The mage’s voice came from just a few feet away. He opened an eye, watching as Dorian made himself at home before the fire, stretching his hands out, the skins stretching against the extra weight. 

He nodded in a way that he could only hope came off as agreeable - not that he really had a choice, the mage clearly had no intention of leaving no matter what Cullen said. He could still see the moon through the parting of the tent flaps, a barely-visible crescent, dotted with glimmering stars, the lines of Dorian’s faced echoed in moonlight. 

Dorian was silent, his jaw resting in his hands, his breath forming crystals sparkling against the cold night air. He was shivering, Cullen realized as he rose, grunting at the quick burst of pain rising behind his eyes, dragging one of his blankets over the man’s shoulders with one hand, a thumb and forefinger digging at his temples with the other. Dorian sighed, his shoulders relaxing under the weight of the thick wool and raised his hands to the fire. 

“I should probably tell you, Commander although I’m sure you’d rather hear it from one of your men… Chancellor Roderick passed. He stood up to a venatori, brave man, but he didn’t make it.”

“I”m sorry,” Cullen mumbled, still not quite sure what he thought about Roderick. Although the man did save them all, despite everything else, perhaps that was enough. He mouthed a quick prayer, not sure who or what he prayed to anymore. The Maker seemed to have abandoned them here but if he was honest his faith had been wavering before tonight, balanced on a knife’s edge for years. 

“So… this Inquisition thing that I’ve apparently stumbled on. You’re in charge, yes?”

“Yes… No! I mean, I suppose… Perhaps? Now that… or possibly Cassandra...” He wasn’t quite sure what to say, now that the Herald was gone Maker only knew who was in charge. Dorian nodded knowingly as he spoke. “Perhaps she still lives? She may have surprised the Elder One…” his voice cracked, catching in the back of his throat and Cullen was shocked to realize that he cared. 

He hardly knew what surprised more him at this point; an army of rebel mages intent on killing them all one minute or a single mage, likely from Tevinter no less, risking his life to try to save them all the next. The small fire rose with a quick snap of the Dorian’s wrist and he watched as the mage leaned into the growing warmth, moving his bare left side closer to the flames. 

“You can sleep, if you like. You’ve done enough tonight, my men can take the remaining watches” Cullen said, reaching his hands out towards the fire. He’d not felt his fingers in hours; Maker only knew how they still managed to grasp his sword. He could see that Dorian’s eyelids were struggling sluggishly against the allure of rest as he stifled a yawn into the back of his fist, red-cheeked against the glow of the hearth. It wasn’t as though they were in a hurry anymore - the Herald had fallen, as he’d known she would. His fault, he thought with a sudden twinge of guilt. He should never have sent her back into Corypheus’ arms, there had never been any chance she would survive. 

“The Herald's a rather remarkable woman,” Dorian said, shivering, leaning closer in to the flames. "I'd not give her up so easily. Elves, you know. Very resilient in all climes."

He blinked dumbly as he contemplated the mage’s words then he jumped to his feet and raced out the door to the tent, grabbing at his cloak and pulling it over his shoulders as he left, stumbling over the threshold. She might still be alive? It was a foolish thought, he imagined, but if he didn’t at least search he would never forgive himself. And her mark had saved her before, he prayed it would again. He gathered up the others; calling for his men, Cassandra, the Iron Bull, anyone amenable to venturing back out into the snow. He took anyone willing, even those recruits still unable to properly grip a sword; if they were to have any hope they would need all capable eyes. 

They searched for what felt like hours; it was possible that they didn't really have the time, despite wanting to find the Herald alive above all else he supposed that Corypheus and his army could bear down on them at any moment but still, try they must. Suddenly he saw a faint green glow between the ever-falling snow. “There! It’s her!” He raced forward, tripping, nearly falling to the ground as his boots caught in the knee-deep snow, just reaching the Herald before she collapsed into his waiting arms.


	3. Chapter 3

She was nearly weightless in his arms despite her armor; bird-boned, brittle-boned yet still, somehow she had survived. He held her close to his chest, wrapped in his cloak on the long trudge back to camp. Cassandra had run ahead to inform the healers, he heard the crunch of leather soles against the icy crust on the ground and, squinting against the glare of moonlight on snow, he made out the silhouette of the Seeker and another following behind her, one he didn’t recognize. As they ran closer he realized who was behind her; _Dorian_. He ran close behind her, oddly graceful despite the swells of snow, though the drifts were knee-high he never seemed to sink into their depths. 

“Andraste preserve us… is she?” She bit back the end of the question but the meaning was clear enough. _Alive_. Yes, but barely, each breath slipping slowly from between her lips in thin puffs of white. Cassandra leaned over the Herald, her fingers worrying across her face, tracing the swirling tendrils of her vallaslin, pushing errant strands of hair off her forehead. 

And suddenly it’s still, quiet, the wind having stopped its relentless assault for the time being. Too quiet because now, besides the creaking of branches overloaded with ice and the distant howling of wolves he can hear the unmistakable crackle of magic, can see a light growing between Dorian’s hands, sparks leaking out between his fingertips. 

Unconsciously he took one quick step back, perhaps two and he caught the mage staring at him, head cocked, a curious expression on his face. Cullen shook his head, frowning slightly, furrows pleating across his brow. 

“ _Venhedis_! I'm not going to hurt her! She needs to be warmed. It’s still at least ten minutes back to camp and that’s if the wind stays low.” The mage swore under his breath or rather, Cullen assumed he swore from the inflection in the word. 

“She can’t wait for the healers, Commander,” Cassandra’s voice was low, soft, but still a warning in her words. 

“You’re right. I… apologize. I didn’t think…” he reached for the words - the right ones - those that would cover up the fear building inside him, a stone in his stomach. They weren’t the right ones, they never were, but they would have to do. 

“Of course I’m right! I very nearly always am,” Cullen could feel the frown deepen at his flippant response and in response Dorian smiled though the gesture didn’t reach up to his eyes, thin-lipped, the edges of his mustache curling ever-so-slightly upwards. He laid his hands upon the Herald and spoke a quick incantation as he released the light through her body. Cullen felt his hand brush lightly across his - so briefly it could have been an accident - warmth pooling under his gloves and then up his arms into his chest. He sighed, shutting his eyes for just a moment; he could feel his feet again and it was _wonderful_. So wonderful, in fact, he forgot for that same moment that he was supposed to be afraid. 

“Don’t you remember your lessons, Commander? Magic exists to serve man,” Dorian’s voice was laced with bitterness, an unspoken pain teasing behind his words. Cullen snapped his eyes open again only to see the mage turn swiftly and stalk off towards their camp, 

He turned to Cassandra with a questioning look; she merely shrugged and huffed a small, exasperated noise in the back of her throat, rolling her eyes slightly as they walked back towards the fires flickering in the distance, as quickly as they could despite the burden in his arms. The burden that had signaled their near certain destruction and delivered them from it as well. 

Back at camp he laid the Herald gently on a cot, her fragile body weighted under countless layers of furs, the healers fluttering above her with hot water and cloths, poultices and quickly brewed potions. He left; there was nothing more he could do here, not now. He looked around for Dorian, knowing that he should apologize although for what he wasn't sure. Something he had said or done had clearly given offense but the mage was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was just as well, he’d never been good with words; not in his youth back in Honnleath, not with the Templars and certainly not now. Joining the Inquisition had been his chance for a new start and he had hoped, prayed, for things to be easier but it had changed nothing. Why should it have? He had been foolish to hope. He raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck; a habit that had become second nature, one borne out of the need to quiet the sick swell of nervousness always within him, rising and falling, crashing against him like waves on the breakers. 

He felt a tug at his sleeve; Leliana, having appeared out of the shadows without a sound. Having no excuse to stay he followed her off towards the tents where his maps and reports had been set up. They had no war table and few resources but at least they had their lives, this would have to do. If they were to survive this they needed a plan, tactics, strategies; he may have failed to save Haven but he would not fail them now.


	4. Chapter 4

There were no strategies to make this survivable. Herald or no, they were too many and too weak to march ever onwards tonight and he knew of no fortresses large enough to shield them from their enemy’s eyes. He bickers with Leliana - back and forth, at each others’ throats for what seems like hours - his voice rising higher and louder against Josephine’s fluttering attempts to soothe their tempers. It hangs above them all, echoing poorly-masked panic, frozen against the chill of the night. The troops were watching, faces downturned with doubt and fear. They were quiet now, no longer indulging in chatter, drawn into themselves with worry. 

It is Cassandra who finally, mercifully, forces them apart and he knows he should say something but he doesn’t; the words don’t come and that’s hardly a surprise. 

Oh, for a door to slam or stones to stomp his feet against but he is not a child anymore, no matter how helpless he feels against everything that has happened tonight. He settles instead for turning on a heel and walking a few feet away to a nearby stump, sitting heavily on it, head in his hands, staring blindly out into the distance. The pain is building again, pulsing through him with each breath; filling the empty pathways in his mind where lyrium used to flow. 

_Shadows fall, and hope has fled_  
 _Steel your heart, the dawn will come_

_A fine sentiment_ , he thinks but hearing the Revered Mother’s voice almost makes him believe it. Perhaps there is still hope. There is, at least, value in continuing to believe in the possibility even if it turns out to be a lie. His men, they need his faith regardless of whether he has forgotten what it meant to him once. They’re frightened, pulling away from each other, the bonds they’d built unknitting faster than they can be resewn. 

_The night is long, and the path is dark_  
 _Look to the sky, for one day soon_  
 _The dawn will come_

He’s standing now, singing before he can decide consciously to do so, the words leaping to the tip of his tongue as though they had never left. One by one they all rise, voices echoing against the darkness, building in the choir. Odd really, how such a simple thing can join them, remind them all of what they fight for. And then, the first man kneels before the Herald, raising a clenched fist to his heart. Others follow shortly and in this moment he knows, they will never be the same; they are larger now, greater than the Inquisition. Far from destroying them Corypheus has united them all, giving them common cause; he would regret it before the end. 

They’re still singing as he slips off into the night, back towards his tent. Parting the flaps he peers in, finds it empty and is struck with a sudden sense of loss arcing through him that he can’t entirely explain. He’s used to being alone; he understands it, knows too well the mocking silence of nothing but one’s own head for company. Still, he’s not ready for it tonight and he backs out from between the leather sheets, stumbling towards the cooking fires. He’s not hungry but perhaps the others have congregated there. He’s hardly disappointed; his eyes light upon the curious swoop of the mage’s hair - it must be magic, he thinks, to stay like that after everything they've been through today - and he sits, too eagerly he knows but he can hardly take it back now. 

“Commander!” Dorian's eyes are bright, too bright: lit from within, reflecting the flames and the soft glint of the moon. They're grey, he realizes, like a frozen pond strung with starlight. _Maker, when did he begin noticing such things?_ “Have a drink!” Dorian presses a flask into his hand but he shakes it off, raising it instead to rake through his hair. Another nervous habit, he has too many. 

“Come now, Commander! Join me! ” 

“Cullen. Please.”

“Cullen, then.” The mage smiles pleasantly, baring his teeth in a way that seems suddenly dangerous - like a large, carnivorous cat - as he pushes the flask back towards him. “There is no headache so terrible that alcohol can’t help, even this dreadful Qunari shit. Drink!” 

He can’t resist although he can't fathom how Dorian _knows_ ; any relief, even just the oblivion of drunkenness appeals. And so he drinks, sputtering slightly as the swill hits the back of his throat. He coughs, choking on the thick liquid; a drop falls from his lips onto the back of his palm and it’s _black_ but yes, his headache has disappeared.

Dorian’s chuckling now and everything about him is simply too much; too many sharp edges, too much flickering light, too much laughter that catches at the corners of his consciousness. “It’s appalling, yes? But _good_ if good can mean ‘I’ll knock you out and recreate you, in my image’. I suppose this is how the Qunari re-educators break the minds of their captives.” 

“How can you joke about something like that?” His temper flares and he can’t stop himself from spitting venom. He should be grateful - _was grateful_ \- for the brief respite from the pain and the creeping heaviness of his own thoughts. “I’m sorry… I, ah, I didn’t mean…” It wasn’t the apology he meant to give and he started again, his tongue tripping over the words; they were too formal but all he could manage, they would have to do. “I apologize, about earlier. I seem to have given offense, please rest assured that none was intended.”

“Really, Commander. What better time to joke than at the least appropriate moment? And secondly - I have no idea what you could possibly mean.” The mage takes another drink, leaning in towards him. “I am not so easily offended, Commander. Perhaps you will learn that before the end.”

He’s about to speak when a large, horned shadow passes over them, coming to rest next to the mage, raising an arm protectively over his shoulders. 

He finds himself strangely unhappy at this although he scarcely knows why he cares. He’s known Bull and his Chargers weeks at most, Dorian just a few short hours - but still, that oddly intimate gesture rankles at him and he knows he will play it over in his mind, again and again until the raw edges soften and it ceases to hurt. 

“You’ve got a good army coming, Commander,” Bull rumbles, his fingers rubbing at the shorn sides of Dorian’s head. “They’ll serve you well.” 

He nods, an unexpected wave of nausea rising up through his chest. “If you will excuse me?” he manages, pulling himself to his feet. Not waiting for an answer he nearly runs back to his tent, throwing aside the flaps and falling onto the waiting pile of furs.


	5. Chapter 5

He sleeps poorly, still tired when he wakes which is not a surprise; that the headache doesn’t return is and he’s thankful for that at least. Small victories are sometimes the ones that matter most and this is one he will hold on to in the coming days ahead. He’s already awake when the sun first peeks over the mountains; he’d drifted restlessly from one nightmare to the next for hours, tossing and turning. He’s never demanded comfort - the Circles certainly didn’t provide it - but the ground beneath him is frozen hard and as the ice melts under the heat of his body the damp seeps in, chilling him to the bone. Dawn is as good an excuse as any to rise and so he does, dressing quickly. He fusses at his the furred collar of his surcoat as he leaves the tent, smoothing his fingers through it until each strand lays just right. It’s a little thing, one that hardly matters in the face of catastrophe but it is yet another thread binding him to normalcy: another small victory. 

It’s still too early for most to be awake but there are pockets of activity across camp, people beginning to stir. Cassandra is deep in conversation with Solas, somehow managing to appear battle-ready despite leaning casually up against a tree: a reminder that she is, at heart, a warrior and that’s all she’s ever known. Her eyes narrow as he passes and he nods, ducking his head to avoid her gaze; it’s too knowing and even more so than usual he can’t find the words. 

He’s splashing water on his face when he jumps at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. 

“ _Maker’s breath_!” The words slip through his lips unbidden; nothing but a reflex, a relic of life in the Chantry. 

“Now isn’t that just delightful! _Maker’s breath_ …” Dorian rolls the words across the tip of his tongue, managing to make them sound almost exotic. “I suppose it shouldn’t shock me that you’re the innocent type. Deliciously blond and a Templar, I should have predicted it from the start.” 

Cullen doesn’t know why he bristles at the words - Dorian’s poking fun, there’s no malice in it - but he does, clenching a fist at his side and releasing it slowly before he turns to the mage, a single eyebrow raised. 

“Ex-Templar.” He sighs, not sure why it matters. His hand is back at the base of his neck, untangling a knot that has begun, resting between his shoulderblades. “I, ah…You startled me,” he finishes lamely. 

“Clearly,” Dorian drawls, a finger flicking at the tip of his mustache, twisting the ends back into their curl. “I seem to have that effect on people regularly, I can’t fathom why. Perhaps it’s how devastatingly handsome I am.” 

“Perhaps.”

“Ah, so you agree? I knew you were a man of impeccable taste; I have an eye for kindred spirits.”

“No! I mean... you… that’s not what I meant.” He coughs and he can feel the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck, the tips of his ears reddening. 

“Yes, well. Was there something you needed?” Back to business and strategies, plans, things that make sense; familiar territory. Not the man who is now standing _much too close_ and leaning in, so close he can’t help but breathe in the scent of him: warm leather and something herbal - grassy, green and sweet. 

“What I need, _Commander_ , is to know why you ran off so suddenly last night. Such poor manners, abandoning one’s guest but I suppose I can hardly expect better from a Southerner. Barbarians, the lot of you.” 

He shifts from one foot to the other, feeling off-balance somehow, like with a stiff breeze or the wrong word he might collapse. 

“I should go. I have a thousand things to do.” He doesn’t but it’s easier than the truth that teases at him, crawling beneath his skin. 

* * *

Mid-morning finds them marching, squinting against the glare of sun on endless plains of freshly fallen snow. The Frostbacks soar and stretch across the horizon and where they march no one can say with the possible exception of the apostate elf who is leading the group alongside the Herald. They follow because they must, too many are still suspicious of the two elves - the low mutterings through the ranks confirms it - but there is no other way save forward. Death and destruction span behind them and nestled somewhere between the snowy peaks lies the hope of salvation; and so they march. 

They make camp again as dusk settles at their feet, hurrying to raise fires and the tents. He doesn’t look for Dorian, he doesn’t need to. He can hear his voice rising high against the singing of the Chargers who have apparently broken open yet another cask of mead, likely with axes. They do seem to have a flair for the dramatic. 

And so it is back to his tent again, early this time for another night of restless shifting against the frozen ground and waking suddenly - alone - wisps of terror in the back of his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is away and withdrawal hits hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... kind of hate this chapter but I feel like it's important. I'm sorry. :(

Skyhold, when they arrive, is everything a stronghold should be and quite a few things one shouldn’t. The walls seem hewn from the rocks surrounding them, as though they were born of the earth rather than built - brick by brick - by mortal hands now lost to time. The bones are good, Cullen thinks critically as he leans up against the ramparts, but everywhere he looks he finds rotting beams, cracked stone and centuries of built-up dust so thick now it’s nearly petrified. It will take time for their workers to turn this ruin into a fortress befitting the Inquisition and their Herald - now Inquisitor though she wears that title uncomfortably, like a handed down coat already too short at the sleeves - but it must be done. Haven was a mistake, he sees that now; the best they could do at the time but an error in judgment still, one they will not make again. They must not fail again. 

The first few weeks are constant chaos and he finds that he likes it that way; no time to think, only to act. No time to focus on the growing sense of unease teasing at the corners of his thoughts. Repairs are made, allies write letters promising support and more people arrive every day; some to seek shelter, some to pledge their lives to something larger than they can hope to imagine. Cassandra comes by his office and he can tell that under her stilted awkwardness she cares; he assures her that _he’s fine_ and today it’s not a lie. Dorian sends a note, written in an elegant but hurried hand. 

_Commander,_

_While I appreciate the boyish earnestness with which you carry out your duties (it’s so very Fereldan, so charmingly rustic) even you must admit that all work and no play makes Cullen a very dull boy. Join me in the tavern, if you’ve a mind._

Cullen doesn’t join him although for a brief, wonderful moment he contemplates it. Perhaps if he were different - easier - composed of anything but hidden hurts and jagged edges but no, it’s _impossible_. He stays awake late into the night, catching up on reports until the candles burn out and he falls asleep at his desk. He definitely does not think of Dorian and his perfect, white-toothed smile or the way his eyes glint mischievously when he laughs. He doesn’t picture the way his armor perfectly accentuates his body, oddly well-muscled for a pampered noble who has likely never gripped anything heavier than his staff in his life. Cullen doesn't hear the tone of Dorian's voice when he's teasing in his head at night when he can't sleep, or the echoing ripple of his laugh. And he certainly doesn’t remember the way the Bull held him that night in camp and it definitely doesn’t hurt.

* * *

It’s still dark when he wakes with a start; whispers of a forgotten nightmare echoing off the walls. The air is stiflingly hot, suffocating even with the draft that always seeps into his rooms through the hole in the ceiling. There’s a curious blurriness before his eyes and his hands shake too much to shave so he doesn’t, hoping his stubble has stayed somewhere within the realm of rugged and hasn’t crossed over into unkempt. 

Today he’s _not_ fine. 

He supervises the drills anyway, biting his tongue to keep from sharing his ill temper with the recruits. They’re trying their best to please, just as he is and he supposes that’s all that matters. 

After breakfast, which he doesn’t eat, he’s summoned to the War Room. The missing patrols have returned from the Fallow Mire, thank the Maker - he has fretted over them for days, fearing his own indecision had lead to their demise. A small blessing he knows but every little bit counts. The Inquisitor is off to Crestwood, to meet Hawke and her Warden friend and just thinking of Marian and Kirkwall makes his head spin. He leans heavily against the war table, scattering papers and his mabari token onto the ground, brushing off Leliana’s concern.

"Are you well?" 

“A headache. Nothing more.” And it's not the truth but it's as close as he can come. Still, she catches hold of his elbow as he stumbles on his way out of the room. Her face impassive as always - the perfect spymaster - but she doesn’t ask questions and he is thankful for that. 

He passes Dorian heading out with Lavellan on his way back to his quarters. He should say something but there’s nothing to say, nothing between them no matter how much he wishes there were so he climbs the stairs to his quarters again, pausing to take in the air on the battlements before he opens the door, watching the party head out. Dorian looks at home on horseback, perfectly balanced in the saddle, his head held high. Sera still seems more than a bit cautious, as though she expects her mount to throw her at any moment and the Bull… well, the Bull has clearly conquered his horse but would obviously rather his feet be on solid ground. Only Lavellan can match Dorian’s composure and skill, riding her hart as though she’s done it her whole life which, he supposes, she has. 

He catches his fingers playing at the hilt of his sword, grasping it experimentally for the first time since the ceremony. _Will you follow? Will you fight? Will we triumph?_ He’d raised it in celebration, mirroring the Inquisitor, high above the roar of the answering crowd. It feels right, he thinks, the heft of it in his hand; the way paperwork and being tucked away in an office don’t and then his hand is trembling again. He scowls at the realization and the sensation which has become all too familiar but is still unwelcome, swallowing back the emptiness it summons. He pushes the blade back down into its sheath, stalks back to his office and slams the door. 

His chair is stacked high with books so he paces instead, breathing through the familiar rhythm of one foot and then the next. He takes out the wooden box, filled with vials of lyrium and the lies he's told himself for years, staring at it for what feels like hours. It was supposed to be easier now; _Maker's breath, when will it stop hurting_? He shoves it back into the drawer of his desk, breathing heavily and takes the few steps out of his office to the tavern.

* * *

It's quieter with the Bull gone, his men subdued. They only sing for rounds of drinks now instead of for every joke, every insult, every half-hearted bar fight. He sits in the quietest corner, nursing a tankard of terrible beer that he didn't order along with the headache that seems to have settled in for the foreseeable future. The bard begins her favorite song, the one about Sera, and he rubs at his temples, knowing that he should leave. 

"Hey, Curly. Finally dragged yourself out of your office?" 

He stifles a groan. He likes the dwarf, truly. Varric's one of the few people from Kirkwall that he remembers even close to fondly and he's familiar which, tonight at least, is even more important. 

"Glad to see you're taking a break. Have you even been in the tavern since we found Skyhold? You've missed all of our wicked grace nights."

"I... I've had duties to attend to," he says and it's true, except that it isn't. The silence between them grows and he folds under its weight. "It's... you know I'm no longer a templar, Varric?" The confession bursts out of him before he can stop it; it's not the whole truth but from the narrowing of Varric's eyes it's enough. 

The dwarf nods, implacable as always. "I'd guessed."

"It's... too much. Too loud. I can't bear it." 

"And he's here. Most nights, at least. I imagine that hardly helps."

 _How does he know?_ The pain builds again, right behind his eyes and his stomach turns. "I need some air, excuse me" and he spills his drink getting to his feet, apologizing as he does. The dwarf waves a hand, almost imperceptibly as he leaves.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric is concerned. And slightly nosy.

“He looks like shit, Seeker.” 

“He? Whom do you mean?” Cassandra scowls at him but he doesn’t back down. She’s already threatened to torture him for information, whatever she intends tonight can hardly be worse than that. 

“You _know_ who I mean. Curly.” 

“Cur… The Commander is fine, Varric. Stop your fretting.” 

“But he’s not taking lyrium anymore, don't you know what that could do?” He says it with the air of a man expecting a chorus of gasps and a smattering of applause but the shock he’s expecting doesn’t come. Since when is the Seeker two steps ahead of the storyteller?

“I’m aware of that and yes, I know. I would ask how you discovered this but I have no time for your lies.” She narrows her eyes, the corners of her lips curling down, the scowl deepening. She doesn’t mean it; he knows she never does. All bark and no bite, the Seeker is, or he’d have been dead five times over by now. She sighs, an oddly vulnerable sound and her face softens. “The Commander is… will be fine. I have faith. He needs to find his own.”

“Why Seeker, it almost sounds like you care.”

“I do not!” 

“Careful there, you’re new at this whole having feelings thing. Take it slow or you might just sprain something.”

* * *

When he gets back to his quarters Cullen finds not only the ever-growing pile of missives but also a steaming mug of elfroot tea waiting on his desk, Cassandra’s doing he thinks until he looks around for a note and there isn’t one. It’s not like the Seeker to do anything without signing her name to it; bureaucracy comes too naturally to her, subtlety a gift that evades. But still, he has larger concerns tonight, the mystery of who seems to be watching out for him will have to wait for another day. Tomorrow he’ll go to Cassandra in the armory, remind her of her word, and ask that she replace him as head of the Inquisition’s forces. Today has made it all too clear that allowing him to remain at his post would be detrimental to the cause, she must understand that. 

He sips at the tea slowly, pulling a face at the bitterness of it but it does help, not entirely but he doesn’t expect that; still, the shaking slows and bit by bit his muscles cease their throbbing, joints unclenching. The healers have offered it before but he has always turned them down. There are too many at Skyhold with needs, he wouldn’t add himself to their ranks; if anything he knows he should take less, need less, subsist on scraps to ensure others do not go without - it does not do for a leader to demand more than his men. This, the withdrawal, is his burden and he should bear it alone or die trying. Tonight though he welcomes these few moments of respite; tomorrow there will be plenty of time for shame. 

A quick, bright rap at the door and he is silent until enough moments pass that it becomes clear whoever stands behind it is clearly not a messenger, used to barging in without welcome whatever the hour. 

“Come” he calls and the door swings open. It’s Varric, bringing with him a sudden, freezing draft; Cullen sighs - he fears he’s been doing that a lot lately - and runs his fingers through his hair. He welcomes the cold though he shivers at the draft against his skin; nights of late had brought with them only heat, fevers and fear that only waking could ameliorate. The company, on the other hand, is not what he would have chosen but the dwarf would have to do. 

“Varric? Is there something I can do for you?”

Varric's silent for a moment and he's suddenly struck by how strange that is. Varric talks for the same reason he buries himself in work, to fill the silent spaces in between where doubt festers, nagging at the small hurts until they bleed and become unbearable. 

"You know, I've seen this before. Back in Kirkwall. Templars, kicked out of the order always ended up buying their lyrium fix from the smugglers. Or begging - half-mad - usually for dust, by the end."

"That's not exactly encouraging, Varric," Cullen says wryly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm just saying - you're doing good." The dwarf pulls a small cake, wrapped in a cloth, from his pocket and places it on the corner of the desk. 

"I'm not..." he starts but Varric cuts him off. 

"Curly, you get any more hollow-cheeked you're going to give the kid a run for his money."

Cullen flashes him a quick, tight smile. He's not sure how to respond so he looks away and lowers his hands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his trousers. Varric's concern is so much freer than Cassandra's and he's uncomfortable even with hers.

"Anyway, I should go. Did you hear the Inquisitor's got me writing the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_? For Cassandra, no less. Shit's weird. I'm thinking of centering it around a handsome yet broody ex-Templar with a dark secret and a mage, a noble-heir-turned-pariah with great hair." Varric cocks his head slightly and smiles, a mischievous grin that takes over his whole face. 

"I... what? No! That's not..."

"Not what it is or not what you want it to be?" Cullen doesn't answer, his hand at the back of his neck again, Varric shrugs and turns to leave. "Suit yourself Curly, but you might try coming down to the tavern more often. There might be people there who'd appreciate your company, such as it is. And you need to relax anyway, Skyhold's not going to collapse if you're not there to hold it up for an hour or two."

And with that Varric's gone, slipped silently back into the frigid night.


	8. Chapter 8

He thinks on Varric’s words all night, sometimes tossing and turning, sometimes pacing the floorboards until they might wear away under his step, anything to avoid the horrors that he knows will come in sleep. _Skyhold's not going to collapse if you're not there to hold it up for an hour or two_. The fortress won’t collapse he knows, but _he might_ and there’s no logic in dragging this out any longer. No honor in pretending. Better to do it quickly, like ripping a bandage from a wound; he’d far rather a moment of intense pain than the unceasing ebb and flow of late. 

Cullen doesn’t go to Cassandra the next morning, his head aching far too much to face the walk across the courtyard, but instead sends a note by ever-waiting messenger, written in a decisive yet shaky hand. 

_Seeker,_

_I must speak with you as soon as you are able. It is time to discuss my replacement._

_Cullen_

He paces the room as he waits for a response - swift and immediate he imagines - Cassandra would be angry and she's not the type to sit and stew. Perhaps he could recommend Rylen be pulled from the Approach and promoted, he thinks. A good man, Rylen would serve well in his stead. 

A note arrives by messenger, pink-cheeked from the cold. He rips it open, hands shaking. A single sheet, a single word: _No_.

“I see. There will be no reply." Somehow he keeps his voice steady and firm. 

She nods vigorously and ducks back out the far door, throwing a quick salute as she leaves.

He must speak with her, impress upon her the urgency of the situation. He slips his coat over his shoulders and turns to leave when a second scout bursts into the room and hands him a hastily folded note. 

_You may have three days. I expect you to return to your duties after that._

Cullen climbs up the ladder to his room, heart pounding high and fast in his chest; furious with Cassandra for refusing him, for her lack of trust in his judgment but at the same time relieved. Perhaps the three days will give him time to convince her otherwise. He strips out of his armor - one piece and then the next falling unceremoniously to the wooden planks serving as a floor - shivering as the ever present draft hits bare skin and crawls into his bed. It’s always cold under the hole in his roof although today at least no snow has fallen into his bed. It's just a small thing but he should be, - _he is_ \- grateful. As he pulls the blankets over his head he forces himself to remember that if he just waits long enough eventually the warmth will come; it always does. 

And so it does. And when he sleeps, tonight he dreams. Instead of the nightmares he’s come to expect, full of abominations and the strangled screaming of his brothers-in-arms as they take their last breaths, he sees Dorian which, at the moment, is worse - the lilting ripple of his laughter, springing to the surface unbidden - the cock of a single, elegant eyebrow - the way he ever-so-slightly narrows his eyes when he’s amused. He doesn’t wake until evening when a messenger arrives bearing an unasked for tray of food; it’s simple fare, bread and meat, a little wine. There’s another small cake, perhaps Varric’s doing? It hardly matters, he doesn't eat but finishes the wine. He pens a quick letter to his sister, telling her that yes, he is actually still alive, anticipating her remonstrations even as he puts words to parchment, and retreats back to his bed.

* * *

On the second day Cullen goes to her in person.

“You asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?”

“I expect you to keep your word. It’s relentless. I can’t…” he growls, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes as the building pain reaches its apex. 

She doesn’t. Instead, she asks him to spar with her. 

“Now? You have picked a rather strange time to develop a sense of humor, Cassandra.”

He huffs and turns to leave as her voice rings out; her voice always carries but today it hangs in the air, tone inscrutable but the meaning undeniable.

“Now. That’s an order.”

He can't find it within him to disobey though he reaches for the words, wanting to argue but finds himself tongue-tied which is hardly a surprise. 

Out in the yard they draw their wooden practice swords, circling each other slowly. Cassandra lunges first and he blocks her easily, his counterattack throwing her off-balance, nearly to the ground.

She springs back up to her feet and aims a heavy blow up at his left shoulder which he has to duck under his shield to block. He sees an opening and attacks, sword arcing through the air but she's too quick, spinning around and trapping his sword between hers and the ground. He advances on her with a fury that takes even him by surprise, she counters stroke after stroke but she's tiring and he takes advantage of her slowness to attack again, stabbing towards her breastbone, soft and unprotected. Another few seconds and they are circling each other again, like a dance and he remembers the steps, the easy rhythms of one foot and then the next. _How dare she?_ he rages inside. _She swore that she would watch him, evaluate the dangers and now she simply refuses? She won't even listen?_ He must be too caught up in his own thoughts because in an instant she's on him, forcing him backwards, lunging at him and he stumbles, dropping back on a knee and raising his shield high.

She presses forward, sweat glistening across her brow, forcing his shield to the side and laying her sword gently across his chest. 

"Match, Commander." 

"And that was... what? Supposed to help? If it wasn't before it should be perfectly clear now that you _need_ to replace me." 

"What is perfectly clear to me is that you are fine. Had I not taken every opportunity you would have easily had the advantage. You give yourself too little credit." She steps towards him and places a warm, calloused hand on his arm which he throws off. She's trying, in her own way to be comforting and that attempt - her unfamiliar, awkward tenderness - makes it even worse. 

"I trusted you." His voice cracks and he knows he should stop, should close his mouth before he does any more damage but the dam has been broken and the words pour out in a whisper. "I trusted you. You swore that you would watch me, that you would evaluate the risks, that you would _help_. You gave me your word! Does it, your honor, count for so little simply because you would rather not admit that you were wrong? I... are you waiting until my mind's gone enough that I get people killed? You promised and now..."

He slams his sword to the ground in frustration, scrubbing at his face with his hands. He can feel hot, angry tears pooling behind his eyes and he turns to walk off - hands clenched at his sides, ragged nails digging into his palms - back towards his quarters, far from Cassandra's fumbling care. 

"You have one more day, Commander."

* * *

He's just beyond the tavern when a familiar voice drifts lazily through the air. 

"Not even a second glance, Commander?" Dorian tuts, stepping out of the doorway, olive skin dappled in the light of the mid-morning sun. He smirks and runs a hand through his hair, brushing back a single errant strand. It's almost warm, if any day in the Frostbacks can ever be called warm and Cullen's not sure it's from the sparring or the heat rising within him and up to his cheeks. And in that singular moment he realizes; he has feelings for Dorian. It's been so long since he's felt anything for anyone and longer still since he's desperately hoped those feelings were returned but here it is, at the worst possible time. 

"Cullen. Please." He bites his tongue before he unburdens himself, untangles all the knots stuck in the back of his throat and tells the mage everything; why he shouldn't and soon won't be the commander, that he'll be gone from Skyhold shortly enough and certainly not about his dreams the night before. He wouldn't care; why should he? They barely knew each other, Dorian had the Bull and would always have Tevinter to return to. Cullen would hardly be missed. "You're back from Crestwood early."

"Ah, yes. Well, I do seem to speed everything along don't I? The perils of genius, you know. Why the Inquisitor ever travels without me I simply can't say." A smile curls at Dorian's lips as he fixes the man with a curious stare. 

"Well, then. Cullen." Dorian says his name slowly, almost as though he were savoring the feel of it on his tongue, then shifts to lean back against the walls of the tavern with an easy elegance that is equal parts alluring and infuriating. "I don't suppose, _Cullen_ , that you would care for a game of chess? I've heard you play." He's still smiling, showing a flash of perfect white teeth. He's close, too close and Cullen backs away quickly, nearly stumbling over his own feet. 

"I... no, I don't. I mean, I do but... no thank you, Dorian. I should be going. I have... duties to attend to." And with that he finds his footing again and continues swiftly up the stairs, not looking back to see Dorian's face, the look of disappointment written across his features. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He curses himself as he climbs one step and then the next; first Cassandra and now this. 

Back in his quarters he tries to read through the reports that have piled up but all he can see is Dorian's face, Dorian's smile, the weight of the Iron Bull's arm around Dorian's shoulder. He groans and lays his head down on the cool wood. 

_One more day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like teasing blood from a stone, this was. I wrote half of this on my phone stuck at the DMV today so if you see any little formatting errors please let me know. 
> 
> I love comments. They make my life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait - getting back into Dorian's headspace was hard - It doesn't exactly come naturally. A lot of wine was required so feel free to point out any stupid little errors I missed in editing. 
> 
> Also, because my reader questioned this re: Dorian betting against Cullen being interested in him, here is my Dorian headcanon. 
> 
> 1) Arrogance masks massive insecurity  
> 2) He is really bad at gambling (see: nearly all of the dialogue options with Varric where he's apparently lost bets)  
> 3) He is not at all convinced that happiness in relationships is an option for him. Tevinter upbringing, you know.

It was cold, no worse than it always was in the courtyard but Dorian feels the chill more keenly now. Thin rays of sun spread across the ground but he doesn’t feel the warmth; he watches as Cullen climbs the stairs, almost hesitantly, as though he were about to turn back at any moment but he doesn’t. And so Dorian doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t try to catch his eye; he doesn’t do anything but shiver, steel his shoulders against the cold and walk back into the squall of the tavern. It’s loud, especially for this time of day, filled with the bard’s caterwauling and soldiers who should have something better to do with their mornings but instead are slamming back pints, singing raucously and breaking into brawls in every corner. 

“You owe me ten royals, Varric.” Dorian says with a huff, flopping down on the chair next to Bull who passes him a flagon full of… Maker only knows what, he thinks as he sniffs at it with a scowl. “Bull, is this liquid gaatlok? Because it smells like it could set ones face on fire. I’m the only one at the table who should be able to pull off that little trick.” 

Bull just guffaws and takes a deep drink, clapping him roughly on the back; the Qunari’s universal symbol for _drink_! He’s done more than enough drinking with Bull out on missions these past few weeks to not know what’s expected. And so he does, obediently, stifling a cough as the liquid hits the back of his throat, burning as he swallows. 

“I haven’t lost that bet yet, Sparkler.” Varric grins at him, taking a long pull of his ale. The dwarf pauses to scrawl a few words on the parchment beneath his fingertips. “I’m in this one for the long haul.” 

“Leave it to a dwarf to change the terms of a gentleman's wager! It’s been weeks and Cullen is clearly not interested, therefore I win. Pay up!” The gold at least would be a consolation prize; Dorian had rather been hoping to lose this one. 

A foolish thought, really. Impossible; he’d known that at the start underneath all the bluster, but then he’s always been inexplicably drawn to the impossible. Time magic. Reform in his homeland. Happiness. And he’s been defeated more than he’s won; another loss is hardly a surprise no matter how much it aches. 

Dorian signals to the barmaid for another drink, anything more palatable than what the Bull has procured for him. Friend the Qunari may be - and the irony of that thought is hardly lost upon him, a Ben-Hassrath becoming friend of a Tevinter Altus - but he has appalling taste in alcohol. She returns in a moment, bearing a snifter of Orlesian brandy. Not perfect, but it will have to do. He flashes her a quick smile and she squeals, an odd response, and he arches a single eyebrow at her until he realizes that Bull’s enormous hand is curving around her ass. 

Of course. 

“Redheads! You just can’t beat ‘em!” Bull crows as she pulls away, trailing her fingertips across the Qunari’s jaw. 

“ _Fasta vass_ , Bull! Is there a single serving girl in Skyhold you don’t have your horns in?” 

“Why? You jealous? You want to watch, don’t you?” Bull leers and Dorian tries to duck as the warrior raises a hand but he’s not quick enough and the fingers burrow into his hair, rumpling it until the front flops down before his eyes. 

“Bull, if you do not stop it right now I will set you on fire, resurrect you just to freeze you in your last moment of agony and then burn you to death again!” Dorian hisses as he tries, futilely, to struggle out of the Qunari’s grasp. .

“Huh. I would have sworn that stayed up by magic.” Bull grins, almost apologetically and his attempts to right Dorian’s hair make it comically worse. 

“Bright. Too bright, shining even brighter to hide a hidden darkness pushed too deep. Another lost hope, lost but not forgotten, pushed deep like a diamond vein within a caved-in mine.” Dorian swallows back a yelp, looks up and sees far too much hat and far too little pale, gaunt face. 

“Cole, what have I told you about announcing your presence before rifling through my mind? It’s only polite.” Dorian sighs and narrows his eyes, not unaffectionately at the spirit. He’s grown fond of Cole, rather like a Fereldan might grow fond of a half-starved Mabari pup that wandered into their hovel and ate all of their food stored for winter. 

“ _But it hurts you_. I want to help.” Cole says, cocking his head slightly. 

“This is… not something you can help with, Cole. Don’t trouble yourself.” Dorian says, turning back to his brandy. 

The spirit starts again, wringing his hands before him. “A weight, pooling in the pit of his stomach. So many mistakes, so many words unsaid. A breath, shuddering, as the pain swells to bursting and he is quiet as the drink settles in.” 

“ _Venhedis_! Cole! What did I just say?” 

“That wasn’t you. Why did you think it was for you?” Before Dorian can answer Cole is gone, off to wherever it was he went when he disappeared disconcertingly. The Fade, most likely, although he never seemed to go back there when it was actually convenient or when asked. 

“I have a suggestion,” Bull rumbles, his fingers still stroking at the closely shorn sides of Dorian’s scalp. “If you want to actually win your bet. From all the available evidence it looks like you like losing to Varric - I mean, really, nugs _DON’T_ have creepy little feet? - but just a thought. Maybe we need to look at this through the eyes of a Ben-Hassrath.” 

“Hey, Tiny! No helping!” Varric says, still scratching his quill across vellum. 

“I’m just saying! Cullen was a templar, right? Which means that once he had something he was devoted to. He clearly had no fond personal experience with magic or mages if he was willing to devote his life to rooting out and destroying apostates and abominations. And he wasn’t promised to the Order by his parents at birth so it was something he came to on his own.” Bull frowns and downs the last of his drink. “He really wants people to know that he's not a Templar anymore, so the leaving obviously means something more than joining to begin with ever did. And what makes a man leave something he actively pledged himself to? Either it was something the Order did that he couldn’t reconcile within himself or it was something personal. And maybe it’s a bit of both but to me he doesn’t look like a man possessed by someone else’s demons.” Bull shrugs, muscles rippling under the quick movement. 

“I truly don’t see how this helps, Bull” Dorian says, drinking the last of his brandy. 

“You’re the genius. You figure it out.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These dorks... I can't even. Also I just realized... do we actually know where Dorian sleeps? Please tell me he has a room other than the alcove in the library and I just missed it all these playthroughs. 
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever. 
> 
> I love comments more than life itself.

Time passes easily in the tavern. There’s always a game of cards or an argument to be had; it’s here that Dorian retreats when he can’t bear the cawing of the birds or Mother Giselle’s suspicious hovering anymore. At dusk more soldiers tramp in, crowding into the empty spaces between tables and chairs, all heavy boots and knocking elbows and raised voices. And it’s now that he finds the raucous swell most appealing; when he can’t slow his mind, turning each thought over and over until it’s glistening and new, painful like a scab ripped from a wound. 

“But really? Birds in a library? They’d all meet with a rather unfortunate, fiery accident if I couldn’t too easily imagine the spymaster’s swift, exceptionally painful revenge. That woman… is terrifying.” He pushes himself clumsily to his feet as the words pour out, slurred now but just slightly. He knows it, knows that it’s time to leave but still Bull pulls him into his lap, cutting off his dramatic bow, and pushes another drink his way. The Chargers roar with applause and cheers; it wasn’t that funny, he thinks, although Maker knows Leliana is _that_ terrifying. 

More brandy. More wine. More cutting anecdotes and more playing to the crowd. By the time night’s fully settled in he has the attention of half the tavern. It’s easier than wondering, less painful than examining the missteps he’s made, the opportunities lost along the way. They laugh, they sing, somewhere above him Cole’s voice hovers, reedily whispering half-forgotten truths that die amidst the din of the bar; orders being called out, familiar songs forced off drunken tongues overpowering the conversation that swirls around him, too quick to keep up with. 

Upstairs Sera is perched on the railing, crudely miming what he suspects is supposed to be fellatio with an empty wine bottle, staring straight at him. He throws a rude gesture her way and swears he can hear her cackling with laughter over the roar as she tumbles onto the floor just in front of her room. Lucky, he thinks; only a few footsteps to her bed and his is still miles away, all the way across Skyhold. And so he drinks until he feels strong arms around him, pulling him to his feet. 

“Up you get, little ‘vint.” Bull’s voice is warm and thick against his neck, lips brushing softly at the base of his skull. For someone so brash, so large, he can be surprisingly gentle when he wants to be. 

Dorian doesn’t argue, he wouldn’t even if he could summon a witty retort. He relaxes under the heat of Bull’s arm across his shoulders, walking in tandem as they leave the bustle of the tavern and start the long ascent up the steps to his room. _Familiar_. That’s what this has become. The South in many ways was still so foreign to him, so strange but these moments feel like home in a way he realized Tevinter never had. For just a brief moment he allows himself to imagine what he might have had if he had said ‘yes’ to Bull weeks ago, allowed himself to give in to temptation. They’re up on the battlements when Dorian pulls away, a single hand trailing across Bull’s neck. 

“I need some air and you… you should go back to the tavern, I’m sure the Chargers will be missing you,” Dorian says, leaning his back up against the ramparts. The chill feels wonderful after the heat of the tavern but still he shivers as his bare shoulder hits the stone and Bull narrows his eyes at the movement. 

“ _Fasta Vass_! I’m fine, Bull. Would you please stop looking at me as though I was one of your men? I don’t need to be rescued.”

Bull shrugs, so slight it’s nearly imperceptible, the subtle movement belying his feelings. “Suit yourself. But if you wake up half-frozen on the ramparts don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. Tomorrow then?” 

There’s a single light shining in Cullen’s office - a beacon of hope, a lighthouse in the dark - and Dorian keeps his eyes fixed on it, just as he did the horizon on the long voyage across the sea from Tevinter, as he replies. 

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Cullen wakes still at his desk to a crick in his neck, the last sputtering of the candles above him and a light, persistent knocking at the door. 

“Come,” he calls, stifling a groan as whoever is outside his door rattles the knob and finds it still bolted. He pulls himself to his feet, stretching out days of ill-use and tension from his joints, and takes the few steps across his office to unlock and open the door. 

And it’s Dorian. Dorian leaning up against the door frame. Dorian whose usually impeccably coiffed hair is rumpled, falling against his brow. Dorian whose messily kohl-rimmed eyes are lit from within and without, mirroring starlight. Dorian who’s smiling, actually smiling at him and… He pushes the next thoughts down, deep within his heart, so deep no excavation could unearth them - therein lies only danger - as he clears his throat and looks questioningly at the mage. 

“Dorian! I… did you need something?” He can feel his hand at the back of his neck again but not for long as Dorian stumbles over the threshold and Cullen has to throw his hands out to steady him. 

“You seem to be making a habit of this,” he quips - for once the words, the right ones, come quickly - as Dorian ends up in his arms. Again. 

Each heartbeat seems to last as long as nights when he was just a boy spent reciting the chants until his eyes burned and his voice gave out used to only he doesn’t want this to end with every fiber of his being. But Dorian’s standing now and looking at him expectantly. 

“Commander? Cullen, are you quite alright?”

“Yes! I mean… yes. I’m sorry, you were saying?” 

“Really, Cullen! Do try to keep up. I don’t repeat myself, generally; Everyone knows that I’m fascinating enough to pay attention to the first time but for a man as handsome as you... I suppose I will make an exception.”

He’s blushing now, can feel the color spreading across his cheeks and down his neck and he doesn’t know why. It’s not personal; Dorian’s like this with everyone. The man would flatter a bog fisher if he thought it would get him something he wanted. 

“I was saying that I’ve not given up on that chess game I mentioned earlier. You play, I play, it simply makes sense. Of course, Solas plays as well but I’m not spending any more time around our elven apostate than absolutely necessary; his dreadful fashion sense might be contagious.”

Cullen nods, relieved; chess at least, like work, is familiar territory. Tactics, strategies, the sort of slow, steady planning he has always taken comfort in when everything else has been simply too much. 

“Excellent! I shall expect you at 11 in the garden, Commander.” And before Cullen can reply Dorian leans in toward him and presses a kiss across his lips, pulling away just as he is about to take a chance and return the gesture and sweeps out of the room. 

_"Maker's breath_... what was that?" he whispers to his empty office but no answer comes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is apparently the "getting to know you, getting to know all about youuuuuuu" chapter. I won't sing, I promise. I wouldn't torture you like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'll find the thread of this eventually. Until then - point and laugh at the flailing!
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever. 
> 
> I love comments and new friends.

“You WHAT? You said you needed some air! If I’d known you were going to take advantage of the Commander I might have stuck around!” Bull does his best to whisper but still his voice carries, thankfully the tavern is still deserted at this hour of the morning. 

“Would you keep your voice down? It wasn’t planned!” Dorian hisses. “And if it’s anyone’s fault it’s yours. You’re the one who convinced me that I wasn’t entirely without hope!” 

“I didn’t mean you should just go in for the kill all at once! Although I suppose that’s what you ‘vints are good for.” Bull huffs, taking a long drink of his ale.

* * *

After weeks of nightmares Cullen’s relieved that his restlessness that night has nothing to do with the demons that stalk him after sundown and everything to do with Dorian. Rising at dawn is habit now - years in the Circles and his time with the Inquisition has seen to that, allowed for little more than complete devotion and self-sacrifice - but today when he wakes it’s to nothing but the sun already hanging high in the sky. He rolls over gingerly, throwing off the layers of blankets he collected during the night, expecting the pain to come at any moment but it doesn’t - all he feels is the inevitable soreness from too many days of what he now fears was nothing more than self-indulgence. 

As he bathes he examines himself critically in the mirror; too thin now especially after the last few weeks - skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones, too pale and covered in errant stubble. The very portrait of _a miserable, frostbitten Fereldan_. He can hear Dorian’s voice in his head, the fussy, mimicking tones and the way he tuts when he’s teasing. Hardly the look of a man who might entice someone with Dorian’s exacting standards. Even as he thinks on it he laughs to himself at his own foolishness; Dorian was deep in his cups last night, even drunker than usual. It had meant nothing. Surely he was still with the Bull or had moved on - he didn’t seem the sort of man who would tolerate being alone for long. But still, Cullen took extra care as he shaved - stripping himself of a week’s worth of misery and weakness - and moved on to making something out of the tangled mess that was his hair. The air in his quarters is thick with the lingering miasma of withdrawal and he throws the windows open, shivering as the frigid mountain air comes rushing in, licking against his bare skin. 

What he knows more than anything is that he’s _starving_ and there’s a tray waiting on his desk - again - when he climbs down the ladder to his office. He checks for a note and again finds nothing, he worries for a brief moment that it might have been Sera and one of her pranks before the scent of freshly baked bread is too appealing to resist. He finishes the whole small loaf as he leafs through reports; a minor nobleman posturing for more power than he can command - Josephine’s work, clearly - missing agents on the very edges of Orzammar - a job for Leliana, only she could muster the subtlety needed to appease the dwarves - and… another request for further resources from the Western Approach. Something he could coordinate certainly but so simple; Cassandra must have told the Inquisitor about his struggles, surely that’s the only way his people would be relegated to simple mining duties. There will be time to address that tomorrow.

* * *

“I do apologize for keeping you waiting but I must admit, I’m shocked you’re here on time Commander. I was sure you’d be summoned to the War Room for something important and I’d be left here waiting for you. It’s why I went for a quick drink first.” Dorian breezes in nearly an hour late for their game, a goblet in his hand; Cullen has set the board up at least five times by now, inching each piece closer to the center of its respective square until he’s finally satisfied, then taking them all off and starting again. 

“Normally you would be right. I’ve… had a special project these last few days. I’m not expected back until tomorrow.” He lies, smiling at Dorian but he knows it comes out more like a grimace; he’s never been a natural liar. 

“Of course, Commander. Shall we begin?” Dorian eases himself into the waiting chair, rubbing his palms together as he surveys the board. “I’ll take black, of course.” 

Cullen moves a pawn forward, an easy opening. Dorian hardly looks worse for wear after last night, but whether or not he remembers anything that happened, let alone his few moments in Cullen’s office, is impossible to say. His face is indecipherable as always and Cullen doesn’t ask. 

“I used to play this with my sister,” he says, watching as Dorian counters quickly, almost too quickly. Another way in which they were mismatched; Dorian plays chess as though the game was simply a means to an end. Cullen was foolish to have hoped. 

“She always beat me. At least, until my brother and I practiced for weeks on end. The look on her face when I finally won…” he chuckled as he moved another pawn, remembering that moment. 

“You have siblings then?”

“Don’t you?”

“It is not exactly… common, in Tevinter. Every family there is looking to distill the perfect mage, the perfect body, the perfect mind. Multiple offspring only increases the likelihood of a mistake.” Dorian’s voice is hard now and he make his next move with far too much force, knocking over several of his own pawns on the way and he scowls as he rights them again. 

“I had… have three - a sister, and two brothers. It’s mostly my sister I keep in touch with; she writes to scold me when I’ve neglected to inform her whether or not I remain alive frequently enough.” 

In contrast to Dorian Cullen can’t help but to play to win. His eyes stay fixed on the board even as he speaks, looking as many moves ahead as he can bear when he realizes that Dorian’s watching him with a questioning gaze. 

“I’m sorry… I was too focused on the game. What did you say?”

Dorian sighs, playing with the pawn between his fingers for a moment before he speaks again. “I said, how long have you been off lyrium?”

He closes his eyes, feeling his cheeks flushing, gritting his teeth before he replies. “Did Cassandra tell you that?”

“Really, Cullen.” And of course, now it’s _Cullen_. Now that Dorian’s asking something so uncomfortable, so very personal. “You have other templars here, they all positively reek of lyrium. You, on the other hand, do not. It’s there but it’s so faint I can hardly pick it up. I drew my own conclusions.” 

“Ah...” he starts, raising his fingers to his temples, ready to rub at the tension he knows is just a few moments away. “It’s been a few months now, since before I joined the Inquisition. After I left I couldn’t… keep answering to the Chantry and the Order, not after how they failed Kirkwall.” 

“What exactly happened in Kirkwall? Not much news has reached us up North.”

“Oh, we just began the mage rebellion and saw the Knight-Commander go insane and turn into a red lyrium statue.” He makes his next move, knight to F3. If only Dorian would just focus on the game, take one thing seriously for the first time in his life and stop this line of conversation. 

“You’re joking!” Dorian fixes him with a questioning stare, his eyes widening. “You’re not! How fascinating! A red lyrium statue? Do you suppose that red lyrium might be used as a source of power?” He stops short as he realizes that Cullen is looking at him disbelievingly, a frown fixed across his brow. “I suppose that was insensitive of me but it’s absolutely fascinating!” 

“How about you? What happened in Tevinter to get you to flee down South?”

“That will have to be a conversation for another time, Commander.” The words come easily but still, Dorian gets up to leave, lips tight. “Do remember that this afternoon Josephine has arranged fittings for our uniforms for Halamshiral. I believe they’re to take place in the War Room.” 

“So you’re going then?” He shouldn’t be so surprised; Lavellan did always want her best surrounding her. Why he was to be in attendance was a mystery - but of course Dorian would be there. 

“A royal masquerade with the very best of wine and possibly a few murders for entertainment? Commander, I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “From the face you’ve been making the last hour I take it you’re not enjoying yourself? I assume this is your first time at Court?” Dorian arches a single eyebrow as he swirls the wine in his glass, examining the color before he raises the glass to his nose to judge its bouquet.
> 
> “It’s appalling.” Cullen says flatly. “All this… pretentious nonsense and waste.” He waves a hand, gesturing at the tables groaning under the weight of platters of untouched food. “And the people are even worse! No one says what they mean and I just don’t know why they won’t leave me alone. Maker take the lot of them!”
> 
> “Darling, you’re fresh meat at Halamshiral. If this were Tevinter you’d have been plied with wine and dragged off to some nobleman’s room within five minutes of arriving. A pinch here and there? It’s positively chaste.”
> 
> It’s easy to forget sometimes that Dorian is, after all, a creature of the courts. This is his element and under the light of the chandeliers he glitters all the brighter; perfectly poised, every inch of him at home in a way he never is back at Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that I love Halamshiral? Because I really love Halamshiral. 
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever. 
> 
> ETA: HOLY COMMENTS! Geez, I love you all so hard.

It’s still two weeks until they leave for the Winter Palace and Cullen dreads it more with each passing day. The finery, the frippery, the masks, the dangerous barbs lying beneath still waters; all of it is foreign, none of it his specialty but still, he must face it. He returns to work and blessedly Cassandra says nothing even though she should. Instead she invites him to the tavern ostensibly to discuss the day’s work, insists on sharing a few drinks and then sits silently, watching him so closely he can hardly spare a glance across the tavern to where he knows Dorian is sitting, carousing with the Chargers. And the Bull, of course. But then, he is not there to pursue his own interests, merely to convince the Seeker that yes, he is _fine_. And he supposes he is, if fine means able to perform his duties - and that is what it has always meant. He meets Dorian for chess twice a week in the gardens, they manage to finish two full games despite the constant interruptions from messengers calling Cullen back to the War Room and are in the middle of a third - Dorian has him in check but in just a few moves Cullen can see retaking the advantage - when the message that they are ready to depart for Orlais arrives.

* * *

_Halamshiral_. It proves even worse than he’d imagined. From the moment they walk through the gates onto the grounds they find themselves surrounded; everyone wants a piece of the Inquisition although in Cullen’s case they seem to want their piece quite literally. The excessive wealth and abundance of preening, obsequious nobles he’d imagined; the same nobles surrounding him, begging for a moment of his time, _touching him_ , he had most certainly not. 

“Did you… did you just pinch my bottom?” He knows the answer to that question all too well after the last few hours but asks it anyway, thumb and forefinger pinching at the bridge of his nose as he backs closer towards the wall of the corner he’d mistakenly thought would offer the most solitude. At least this offender was younger, a man who might have been handsome enough underneath his mask, not a dowager on the verge of death, looking for one last thrill before she passed across the Veil. 

He feels an arm across his shoulders and the stem of a glass pressing into his hand.. He looks up quickly - _Dorian_ \- and never has he been so relieved to see anyone, even if the mage is the source of the sum of his anxieties of late. 

“I’m terribly sorry, monsieur.” Dorian lilts, as he leans casually back against the wall. He raises his hand to run it through Cullen’s hair, smoothing back the part where he’s worried at it and pushed it all out of order. A bold move, that intimate gesture; Dorian plays the Game like he does chess, brashly, without hesitation and convinced of his inevitable victory even if he loses more often than he wins. “I’m afraid the Commander has other… duties to which he must attend. I’m sure you understand. He is, of course, a very busy man.” 

The throng surrounding him grumbles but eventually acquiesces, taking their leave one by one although even at a distance they’re predatory, watching his every move. 

“You’ve amassed quite a following, Commander. I’m almost jealous! They keep making a face as though they smelled boiled cabbage every time they pass by me. Which is utterly ridiculous as of course I don’t smell of cabbage… do I?” Dorian fusses at his trousers, his hands smoothing over his thighs, brushing out invisible wrinkles. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Dorian even the slightest bit discomfited. 

Despite himself Cullen leans in and takes a deep breath. No cabbage but unfamiliar, heady spices, the dusty yet somehow still alluring scent of old books and the slight metallic bitterness that he’s come to recognize as lyrium now that he doesn’t have it in his blood. 

“Definitely not boiled cabbage. That much even my boorish, Fereldan senses can glean” he teases, smiling as Dorian’s face lightens. 

“From the face you’ve been making the last hour I take it you’re not enjoying yourself? I assume this is your first time at Court?” Dorian arches a single eyebrow as he swirls the wine in his glass, examining the color before he raises the glass to his nose to judge its bouquet. 

“It’s appalling.” Cullen says flatly. “All this… pretentious nonsense and waste.” He waves a hand, gesturing at the tables groaning under the weight of platters of untouched food. “And the people are even worse! No one says what they mean and I just don’t know why they won’t leave me alone. Maker take the lot of them!”

“Darling, you’re fresh meat at Halamshiral. If this were Tevinter you’d have been plied with wine and dragged off to some nobleman’s room within five minutes of arriving. A pinch here and there? It’s positively chaste.” 

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Dorian is, after all, a creature of the courts. This is his element and under the light of the chandeliers he glitters all the brighter; perfectly poised, every inch of him at home in a way he never is back at Skyhold.

“So, Cullen Stanton Rutherford. Is that all? After Cassandra’s introduction it seems almost shabby in comparison. _Cassandra. Allegra. Portia. Calogera. Filomena. Pentaghast_.” Dorian bows mockingly, perfectly capturing the man’s clipped, fussy tones. The velvet of his jacket ripples with the movement as he straightens and sniffs skeptically at his wine before taking a sip. “I’ve been burned one too many times by our steward at Skyhold - that blasted man couldn’t pick a good wine if it walked up to him and propositioned him. But this… this is divine,” he sighs contentedly.

Cullen snorts, swallowing back a laugh sure to be much too loud and undignified for the ballroom and the circumstances they find themselves in. No matter what happens tonight it seems doomed to end in a breakdown of civilities and renewed fighting in the Dales at best if not a complete bloodbath on the ballroom floor. That he can laugh at all is a miracle. He takes a tentative sip of his wine and then a deeper drink, draining the glass when it doesn’t burn the back of his throat as he swallows. 

“Are you quite sure you didn’t bribe Josephine not to reveal the rest of your names to the Council? It would so please me to learn that all Southerners have equally ridiculous names. Cullen... Stanton… I suppose I don’t know what you would even put after that mouthful!” 

“That’s all, I promise.” He crosses his hands over his heart in an exaggerated gesture, accepting another glass of wine from a passing servant and draining it in one long drink. He pulls at the high collar of his uniform, tugs the uncomfortable swathes of fabric away from his chest. The tailor must have taken bad measurements the way it pinches at him, restricting his breath until he’s dizzy. Or perhaps it’s the wine or the way that everything in the Winter Palace is too bright - even the air seems to glimmer. Of course Dorian looks magnificent in his red velvet jacket, he thinks resentfully as he rakes a hand through his hair. Surely Josephine could have chosen a more flattering color… 

“Would you stop it?” Dorian smacks his hand away from his head, smoothing unruly curls back away from his brow. “I swore to our delightful ambassador that I would keep you looking presentable. A more difficult task than I’d imagined, I’ll admit but I’d rather not have Josephine drag me out by my ear and pack me on the next ship back to Tevinter.”

Cullen chuckles at the image but can picture it all too well; Josephine may be softer than their spymaster but she’s still terrifying in her own way. “For your sake then, I will behave myself. I would hardly wish to see you kicked out of the Inquisition. Who would I beat at chess then?” There’s so much unspoken beneath his promise, truths that leave him off-balance and he’s tempted to fuss at his coat again to steady himself but he doesn’t. He lowers his hand, trailing it softly across the front of Dorian’s jacket before it comes to rest at his hip. 

“Excellent! The Inquisition would be so much less handsome without me; they’d still have you and Krem, of course, but outside of the two of you it’s a dire tragedy.” Bells chime from across the ballroom and Dorian finishes his wine, grabs a small bowl of spiced nuts carried by a waiting elf and pops a few into his mouth. “Sadly, that appears to be my signal. I suppose I should return to the Inquisitor. Save me a dance for when this is all over, Commander?” 

“I don’t really dance.” It’s not a lie, the Circles provided little time and no opportunity for such frivolous pursuits. 

“Nonsense, Cullen! This is Halamshiral. Everyone dances at the Winter Palace and you, popular as you are, are no exception. Besides, a dance with the evil Tevinter mage might actually keep your admirers at a distance you’re more comfortable with. I simply won’t take no for an answer.”

“I… yes then. Of course, if you like. But wouldn’t you rather save your dance for Bull?” 

“The Bull? Whatever for?” Dorian laughs, cocking his head ever so slightly. 

“Well, yes. I just thought, I mean I assumed that you and he were… together.” Cullen coughs lightly and clears his throat, looking around in every direction for a steward with yet another glass of wine or another mob of nobles to fight off - anywhere except at Dorian. 

Dorian opens his mouth to reply when the bells ring again, a scowl pulling at the corners of his lips. “We will have to continue this later. Fashionably late is one thing but if I miss the battle I imagine Lavellan might kill me herself. For now, a parting gift that just might keep your adoring public from venturing quite as close while I’m away.” 

And then Dorian’s lips are pressed against his again and this time he doesn’t pull away, giving into the rough kiss; he couldn’t, even if he wanted to because one of Dorian’s hands is tangled through the sash of his jacket and the other is on the back of his head, pushing him closer. The bell rings again and Dorian pulls back, a small smile curling across his face. 

“That was…” he starts but Dorian shushes him, placing a single finger across his lips. For that one brief moment Cullen thinks they might be the only people left in the room, maybe even in Thedas and then Dorian is gone, lost in the swell of rustling silks and secrets.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We will have to continue this later.
> 
> Continue what, exactly? Dorian speaks in subtleties, cloaking meaning in layers of artifice, always leaving himself with an escape route and Cullen’s never had the patience to strip away the layers. And then there’s nothing but the memory of Dorian’s lips ghosting against his own, the uneasy sense of too much and not enough and he shakes his head quickly, hand at the back of his neck again. It means nothing, of course. It’s only Dorian’s nature, the flirtatious quips and looks that last just a second too long to be casual. One kiss out of desperation, drunkenness. The second nothing but tactics. He can only imagine what Dorian would say - between the tsk tsks and tuts that pepper their conversations - if Dorian only knew that now he was replaying each moment over and over again in his mind, memorizing every second, every angle of them, turning them over in his hands until they smoothed and revealed their truths. Something beyond ragged edges that hurt now; something familiar, a comfort. Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started out trying to write a fluffy, lovely dance scene. Ended up with this. Ugh. I'm sorry this took so long. I've been dealing with some personal stuff lately. I know this isn't very good but it's the best I can do right now. 
> 
> 7 chapters left (unless I decide to go longer than 20) - anything in particular you want to see? I'm happy to change pretty much any quest to put these two dorks together so feel free to suggest something. 
> 
> Talk Cullrian with me on [tumblr](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com). Or prompt me. Whatever.

If this, any of this - whatever _this_ was and he’s still thinking on it - made even the slightest bit of sense Cullen could have gone about the rest of his night as usual. But it didn’t make sense and so he can’t go on, no more than he can untangle the curious knot that’s come to rest in the pit of his stomach or smooth away the furrows pulling at his brow. 

If his time with the Inquisition should have taught him anything it was to expect the unexpected, to embrace a day-to-day in which everything was unfamiliar and nothing made sense. An immortal, original darkspawn, a friendly spirit who helps and the unlikely collection of followers they’ve amassed should have seen to that. It hasn’t. He finds himself still searching for the threads to tie the present that threatens to overwhelm him to the past that keeps him grounded. 

Except it doesn’t keep him grounded, not anymore. 

If he’s honest - and he supposes that’s all he can be, all he’s ever been even when deception might have served him better - nothing he can pluck from the past makes sense to him now. Not his training for the Templar Order, not the Circle Tower and certainly not Kirkwall.

* * *

With Dorian gone the nobles return, slinking back one by one with their wandering hands and rapacious grins beneath their masks; eyes lit from within by wine and lust, from without by the shimmering of the chandeliers strung high above the ballroom.

They remind him of wolves, stalking their prey; circling, circling, always circling. Stalking the ballroom in packs - a nip of sharp, flashing teeth here, an invitation cloaked in intrigue there - sniffing out vulnerabilities, always looking for the advantage. 

Before they can settle around him he makes his excuses – _a Commander’s work is never done, you understand_ \- and slips quietly through the glass double doors onto the balcony. He pushes at the sleeves of his jacket until the fabric bunches over his elbows, pulls at the collar and teases the top button undone. It’s warm in Orlais, the breeze fluttering off the docks stifling and thick with salt; it feels just like Kirkwall always did.

He always hated Kirkwall. 

In Kirkwall, surrounded by the Waking Sea, every step he took felt as though he were on the deck of a ship. Tilting - each footstep hesitant - ready to throw him overboard at any moment, at any sign of weakness or any misstep. In Kirkwall though there was the constant understanding that of course he was on solid soil no matter how the ground roiled beneath him; there were no such promises in Orlais, not tonight. 

_We will have to continue this later._

Continue _what_ , exactly? Dorian speaks in subtleties, cloaking meaning in layers of artifice, always leaving himself with an escape route and Cullen’s never had the patience to strip away the layers. And then there’s nothing but the memory of Dorian’s lips ghosting against his own, the uneasy sense of too much and not enough and he shakes his head quickly, hand at the back of his neck again. It means nothing, of course. It’s only Dorian’s nature, the flirtatious quips and looks that last just a second too long to be casual. One kiss out of desperation, drunkenness. The second nothing but tactics. He can only imagine what Dorian would say - between the _tsk tsks_ and _tuts_ that pepper their conversations - if Dorian only knew that now he was replaying each moment over and over again in his mind, memorizing every second, every angle of them, turning them over in his hands until they smoothed and revealed their truths. Something beyond ragged edges that hurt now; something familiar, a comfort. _Home_.

He’s still leaning against the balcony, staring far past the excesses of Val Royeaux when he hears footsteps behind him, nearly upon him. He swallows back a yelp - it would hardly do for the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces to attract that much attention, he can hear Josephine’s scolding - and whirls around. 

“Hey, deep breath Curly. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Varric’s backing away with his hands held out as if in apology, glasses clasped in both hands. “I thought maybe you could use a distraction from your fan club but it looks like you already found one. Drink?” 

Cullen takes the glass gratefully and drains it in a mouthful. 

“Thank you” he says. “Are you enjoying yourself? Someone should.”

“Me?” Varric snorts. “Not especially. Although it makes for some great people watching, I’ll say that. And listening. You’d be amazed what people will say around you when they’re convinced you’re a servant. Or furniture.” 

“Ah…” There’s nothing he can say that would make the wound heal faster or make Varric less cognizant of the offense but he’s angry at the injustice of all of it and it seems like that’s the only time the words come easily, even when they shouldn’t. “I’m sorry.” The apology hangs in the air and he coughs to cover it, muffling the sound into his fist. “Has it… have they been terrible?”

“I suppose it’s not that bad for me; some of the Court are willing to admit they’ve read my books and that gets me a level of favor few dwarves would manage in Halamshiral.” Varric fingers the stem of his glass carefully, replacing it on the tray of a passing servant and taking two more. He takes another drink before passing the other glass to Cullen. “How about you, Curly? How do you like the Winter Palace?”

Cullen smiles wryly, taking a sip of his wine. “I imagine it will hardly come as a surprise to you if I say that I hate it?”

Varric grins and hums softly, a familiar tune but one that Cullen can’t quite place, as he turns to stare across the water. 

“Do you miss it, Varric? Kirkwall?” He takes another drink and turns back to the dwarf. 

Varric’s face remains implacable, but the silence between them makes it clear there’s much, too much bubbling beneath the surface; too many words unsaid, too many feelings, like the Deep Roads, left unexplored and for good reason. 

“It’s home.” Varric says softly, as though that explains anything at all. _Home_. Too many children in too small of a house, a thatched roof that mercifully never leaked like his own does now. His mother’s voice and the smell of freshly baked bread. Mud and dogs, muddy dogs and the pawprints they left over everything. Nothing has felt like home since he left for the Templars.

Until now.

* * *

Only the Winter Palace could hide such deception and danger under so many layers of pomp and circumstance. He understands now why everything in Val Royeaux is coated in gold flake; it hides the blood and Maker, are their hands soaked with it tonight. Assassins. Venatori. Scheming nobles. The Grand Duchess is cut down as easily as he might pluck a stray thread from his cuff and Celene remains on the throne, an uneasy peace brokered with her cousin and the Elven diplomat. Strange bedfellows they make, Cullen thinks to himself, laughing. The phrase is only too fitting if the rumours whispered through the ballroom have any truth to them and he supposes the truth must be in there somewhere; what’s an illicit love affair in a court where blood flows faster than wine? 

Dorian returns, throwing open the doors to the balcony Cullen has claimed as his own with even more swagger in his step than usual; eyes bright, color high in his cheeks but not a single hair out of place. 

“Marvelous party!” Dorian says as he comes to lean against the balcony, a smile curling at his lips, fingers fussing at Cullen’s sleeves until they’re back in place. 

“I’m glad someone thought so,” Cullen mutters. 

“Not one for courtly intrigue, Cullen?” Dorian tuts. “I suppose it was a bit boring. Back home this would have been fit for a garden party, not a Grand Masquerade.” 

“Boring? Maker’s breath Dorian, countless people died, innocent people we couldn’t save and…” he bites his lip to stop himself, knowing he’s stammering again, tripping over the words that should have stayed inside. He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing back unruly curls, fixing his eyes on the horizon until he can master himself again. 

“Ah. I seem to have touched a nerve, and not the nerve I would have chosen,” Dorian replies calmly and when Cullen looks at him again his eyes are dark, filled with regret. “I suppose I shouldn’t miss it as I do, but it is my home.”

Cullen’s heart pounds higher in his chest and he takes one deep breath after another to slow it. “I apologize, that was… unkind of me. None of us can help where we come from.” Dorian’s smile deepens, it’s too knowing and Cullen wants to turn away but he can’t. 

“Too true. And you are forgiven, I’d tell you not to do it again but Maker knows that would be pointless - you just can't help yourself, can you? More to the point though, I do believe that someone promised me a dance.” 

Cullen groans. “Holding me to that, are you?”

“I never forget a promise, they’re so few and far between these days.” Dorian holds out an elegantly manicured hand and, holding his breath, Cullen reaches out to take it and before he can think he’s in the mage’s arms. 

Dancing comes even less naturally to him than deception but he manages to follow well enough, only stepping on Dorian’s toes twice and even then just brushing against the edges of his boots. And just as the music swells before the final turn he pushes Dorian back towards the railing, capturing his lips in a rough, needy kiss. Dorian makes a quick sound of surprise before returning the gesture and the kiss is fire, it’s lightning, it’s _everything_ and his fingernails are scraping down Dorian’s neck and Dorian’s are tangled in his hair. Dorian’s lips are soft and Cullen can’t pull away, can’t stop pressing against him and there’s nowhere for them to go, the small of Dorian’s back flush against the railing and he can’t stop kissing him, can’t get enough of the taste of him; the heady bitterness of wine and exotic spices and always the faint metallic humming of magic that jolts inside of him. 

And it’s Dorian who pulls away this time, hands clasped on Cullen’s hips. “It would hardly do…” he gasps as Cullen nips at his neck, teeth grazing against soft skin. “For the Commander to be caught _in flagrante delicto_ with the Tevinter mage. At the Winter Palace, no less.”

Cullen growls, his voice thick with arousal as he tries to pull Dorian back towards him but he’s too quick, stepping aside and back towards the door. 

“Skyhold, Commander. Perhaps you’ll join me for a drink and then we can discuss our… arrangements.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That wasn’t a judgement. We all have our struggles.” Dorian frowns and is silent for a moment, furrows pulling at his brow, a quick flash of pain in his eyes hastily blinked away, so quickly Cullen wonders if he saw it at all or if it was just his imagination. An echoing of his own, the agonizing ache in his chest when he thinks about Dorian and everything he doesn’t dare to speak of; familiar - the lingering bruise that is his heart - just a new prod in the same spot.
> 
> These moments when Dorian’s quiet are worrying if only because they’re so rare; Cullen’s grown used to the mage’s voice, filling up the silent spaces between them. He should say something, he knows it just as he knows he should turn away, fall back before his lack of preparation, his hesitance destroys everything. And then, mercifully, Dorian continues, deftly turning his tone light again. “You’re doing well. You were looking, and I suppose I should apologize in advance before you get defensive, dreadful, like you might have keeled over at any moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh this took forever. Sorry if you were waiting! If you like it please let me know! Comments are love. <3
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger. Come play with me!

They leave quickly, slipping away into the night. All’s well that ends well, Cullen supposes and the ball did end well. At least, it ended as well as anything ever did in Halamshiral but still, the peace they brokered is tenuous and overstaying one’s welcome is never advisable even in the best of circumstances. Cullen is happy enough to trade the gilt and glimmer of the ballroom for the distant flickering light of the stars, the opulence and warmth of the Winter Palace for a tent that’s seen better days - the ripped one that doesn’t keep the wind out, the one he always makes sure to take before it can be allotted to any of his men - a nagging ache that settles deep in his lungs and cold, chapped hands that never warm no matter how much he chafes them. 

They debrief in a central tent that’s been quickly assembled to serve as a makeshift war room. There’s no table as such but Leliana has spread his maps haphazardly on the ground, tamping down the edges with jagged chunks of dawnstone pried from the surrounding rocks. Cullen cringes at the sight of them - _his poor maps!_ \- but doesn’t complain beyond the faint glare of annoyance he knows he can’t successfully hide so he doesn’t try. 

Peace may have been secured in Orlais tonight but Lavellan’s message is clear. Corypheus will be desperate now and they must prepare for the next attack. They can not let the momentum slip away. As soon as preparations can be made they must march on Adamant. The Grey Wardens must not be allowed to continue their plans to raise a demon army; they must be shown the error of their ways. Even Leliana, who has always had a soft spot for the Grey Wardens, reminds them all that every Warden mage must be slaughtered; no quarter can be given, they must be cut down where they stand. The warriors may yet be redeemable but the mages are slaves to Corypheus, their minds no longer their own; they will die before they abandon their master. 

When the meeting is finally over he looks for Dorian, finding him tucked in front of a campfire with Bull and Varric, deep in conversation shot with raucous laughter. Dorian hands over a small coin purse to Varric with a smile. Another of their bets, Cullen imagines. Odd though that Dorian seems pleased to have lost. Varric at least notices him standing from across the way and raises a hand, beckoning him towards the fire but Cullen shakes his head softly. 

Cullen wants to go to him, knows that he should; there’s something between them now, even if he doesn’t have the words to define it yet. The pounding of his heart ever higher in his chest is proof enough of that. But proof it is too that he should wait, should choose instead to gather and order his thoughts until a winning strategy becomes clear. There are no easy tactics in love, not like in war; he knows this as well as his hand knows the heft of his sword but still he searches for the battleplan that will lead to victory. 

He finds a secluded clearing instead, sheltered from the wind by an outcropping of jagged rock jutting up from the earth, just a few short minutes from camp and lies down, cloak shielding him from the snow-packed ground but still the damp seeps through. 

“Surely they gave you, of all people, a proper tent? Or did you reject it? Is sleeping unsheltered on a frozen mountaintop, no doubt catching one’s death of cold, some sort of barbaric Fereldan pasttime? ” Dorian’s teasing, voice thick with laughter and for once Cullen doesn’t bristle at the mild gibe. 

“No,” he says. “Nothing like that. It’s just… I like being out here. Alone. With the stars.” He waves a careless hand towards the surrounding peaks. 

“The stars?” Dorian raises an eyebrow as he spreads the fur he’d had slung over his bare shoulder onto the ground. “Here, sit. You shouldn’t get that _thing_ you wear draped around your neck damp - I can’t imagine it would smell like anything but wet dog and we can’t have that.” 

Cullen raises up on an elbow and moves to sit on the fur next to Dorian. “You’re one to talk about freezing. Are you ever going to find a set of armor that serves function as well as fashion?” He unfastens his cloak at the neck and moves to pull it across both of their shoulders. 

Dorian breathes a contented sigh and curls deeper into the warm fabric. “Such a gentleman you are.” 

“I liked them, when I was a boy. Sometimes, in the summer, I’d sneak out of the house once everyone else was asleep and stare at them until dawn. My father must have known though, he gave me a book and I studied it until I wore the pages bare. I knew all of the constellations then.” He takes a quick breath in, huffing it back out into his waiting palms in a vain attempt to warm his hands. 

“You are full of surprises,” Dorian murmurs, leaning heavily against his side, cheek resting against the fur on his surcoat. “Do you still?”

“I’ve not had much time for star-gazing in a very long time. But here, do you see that especially bright one that glows slightly blue?” Cullen raises a hand up to the night sky, wincing as his hand shakes slightly, each tremor highlighted in the moonlight. 

Dorian hums a noise of agreement and Cullen breathes a quick sigh of relief that he doesn’t mention it. 

“Now, if you connect the stars up the center and then down, then back around we get the body of the bird. Follow the path up to each side and there are the wings. That’s _tenebrium_. The shadow. Or the owl, I suppose.”

Dorian starts to smile at him then ducks his head down and stifles a yawn into his fist. 

“Even the recruits don’t seem to find me quite that boring, or if they do they hide it better than you do” he teases as he nudges Dorian lightly, playfully, with a shoulder. 

“I’m sure I hardly have to tell you that it has been a very long few days.” Dorian pulls away as he sits up, struggling against another yawn, and Cullen misses the warmth, the sudden chill teasing out a shiver. 

“Not at all.” Cullen stands, leaving his cloak wrapped around Dorian’s shoulders, reaching out a hand. “Come. We should return to camp. You need to rest.” 

Dorian takes the offered hand as he stands. “As do you. I haven’t forgotten it was only a few short weeks ago you were on the verge of working yourself into a nervous breakdown. Through lyrium withdrawal, no less. Your armor’s still hanging off you.” 

Cullen looks away and tries to resist the urge to rub at the knot beginning at the base of his neck. He fails and hisses as his fingers hit a patch of skin rubbed raw at the Winter Palace. Dorian’s fingers close over his then thread through his own until their hands are clasped, leading his hand down until it’s pressed against the mage’s chest. 

“That wasn’t a judgement. We all have our struggles.” Dorian frowns and is silent for a moment, furrows pulling at his brow, a quick flash of pain in his eyes hastily blinked away, so quickly Cullen wonders if he saw it at all or if it was just his imagination. An echoing of his own, the agonizing _ache_ in his chest when he thinks about Dorian and everything he doesn’t dare to speak of; familiar - the lingering bruise that is his heart - just a new prod in the same spot. 

These moments when Dorian’s quiet are worrying if only because they’re so rare; Cullen’s grown used to the mage’s voice, filling up the silent spaces between them. He should say something, he knows it just as he knows he should turn away, fall back before his lack of preparation, his hesitance destroys everything. And then, mercifully, Dorian continues, deftly turning his tone light again. “You’re doing _well_. You were looking, and I suppose I should apologize in advance before you get defensive, dreadful, like you might have keeled over at any moment.” 

Dorian goes on, looking at him soft-eyed. “Still handsome, of course, but a bit frail for my tastes. A general should look in fine fettle, not like he could blow away in a fierce wind. Ah, there’s that blush! You have actual cheeks again, thank the Maker. Have you any idea how disconcerting it is to see a man with gaunt cheeks blush?”

* * *

Back at camp they share a quick drink with Bull and Varric around the fire before retiring. Cullen winces as Bull lands a hearty clap on his back after he manages to swallow his cup of Maraas-Lok with no reaction save a quick cough muffled into his elbow and the slightest hint of a grimace. Dorian doesn’t fare as well; he coughs and his eyes water at the first sip until the kohl that’s remained impeccable all night finally smears, trails streaking down his cheeks. 

“You’ve been taking lessons from Krem, right Commander? No one survives their first taste of Maraas-Lok like that with no warning.” Bull beams proudly at Cullen then turns to ruffle Dorian’s hair. “Tough luck, ‘vint. You’ve been beat by a Fereldan tonight.”

“Maraas-lok flowed freely in Kirkwall; the Arishok saw to that, if nothing else. It’s hardly my first taste,” Cullen says with a wry smile as he shares a quick glance with the dwarf. Varric would understand; there are few things Varric doesn't understand, Cullen suspects and fewer still that he doesn't have a hand in somehow.

“I’d say better luck next time, Sparkler but I think you’re outmatched.” Varric’s hooded eyes twinkle with laughter as he pulls himself to his feet. “Come on, Bull. You and I need to settle up after our game tonight.” 

The Qunari grumbles but rises and walks off with Varric without any further complaint. 

“I suppose, Commander, that is my cue as well. The Fade beckons,” Dorian rubs at his face with his hands, running his fingers through the errant strands of hair strewn haphazardly across his forehead. 

“Dorian…” Cullen takes a slow, shaky breath in and huffs it back out quickly, watching as it forms crystals before him in the frozen mountain air. “Dorian.” 

“Cullen,” Dorian replies, glancing back over at him as he rises, brushing the dirt from his knees with a scowl. 

_Maker_ , he loves the way Dorian says his name - the mage’s tongue lingers over the syllables as though each was a prayer. 

Oh, what he wants to say is so simple but so difficult at the same time. Just a few short words that spring to mind easily but stick in the back of his throat. It would be a gamble and he’s never been a betting man but the words are out before he can stop himself. 

“I don’t suppose…” Cullen clears his throat, prepared for the inevitable rejection. “I don’t imagine you would… stay with me tonight?” 

Dorian’s quiet again, gazing out towards the horizon, drawn into himself. Cullen tries to convince himself that the silence isn't his fault but it is and he panics, tongue tripping over a hasty apology. 

“Maker’s breath! Dorian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… not like that. I was just thinking it might be warmer…” he finishes lamely. “I mean, after tonight I suppose I thought… well. It doesn’t matter. ” 

Dorian glances over at him then back at his hands, tenting his fingers just ahead of his chest. 

“Are you entirely certain that you want to be seen with the evil Tevinter mage? What will your men say?”

Cullen doesn’t answer, words are unnecessary now; he just holds out a waiting hand in response. Dorian takes it, clinging to it with a strength that surprises him and together they walk off together towards his tent where there are no problems more vexing than _how did we come to this_ awaiting them. And that is a problem for another day, Cullen thinks as he pulls the flaps of the tent aside and ushers Dorian in, a hand placed softly between the mage’s shoulder blades to guide him.

* * *

Dorian’s asleep nearly as soon as his head hits the ground, his sleep punctuated with soft exhalations and what might be words whispered into the pillow. Cullen removes his armor piece by piece, taking care to discard each one as quietly as possible. Stripped to nothing but long underwear he shivers and pulls on another shirt and then a sweater, one of the last that Mia had knitted and sent to him when he was still in Kirkwall - it was several sizes too large now but still warm - it would have to do. 

He sits on the ground beside Dorian, watching as the mage’s face unknits the tension of the past few days and relaxes. There’s an honesty in people when they sleep, he realizes, and Dorian is no exception. Cullen watches as the years shed from Dorian’s brow, his lips curl up in a slight smile and he relaxes against the warmth of Cullen’s legs beside him - he murmurs something soft and unintelligible in his sleep, almost as if in invitation. 

Never one to disobey even the suggestion of an order, Cullen lies down beside him, pulls the waiting pile of furs over the both of them and throws an arm carefully over Dorian’s chest, smiling as the mage sighs and curls closer into Cullen's chest. 

Sleep, when it comes - for the first time in weeks - is dreamless. 

So he sleeps; yet somehow when he wakes he is alone, nothing from the night before remaining but the wisps of what might have been. He'd believe them nothing but a wonderful dream if not for the faint tracks of Dorian’s boots left in the icy ground.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He might have imagined it - what he thought they had between them - he thinks as he tugs at the laces of his boots, tying the leather tight against his calves. A man’s mind can convince itself of all sorts of untruths especially if the need has festered long enough, see longing glances where none exist, imagine that a touch lingers a moment too long when it doesn’t, mistake an easy joke for flirtation. And he’s hardly the best judge; alone too long, always grasping for meaning and clarity in an absurd world. A fatal flaw, perhaps; he knows that Dorian would declare it so with a playful sort of disdain if he dared confess it aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy we're back in cullen's head. because of course we are. and fuck, this sucks. i'm so sorry. 
> 
> if you like it please comment! 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger. come play with me!

Cullen wakes before dawn but waits until he can see the first glimmers of winter sunlight through the tent flaps before he rises, relishing a few brief moments of quiet and warmth before it becomes necessary to face the day ahead of him. 

He bunches the blankets further up towards his face and takes a deep breath in. They smell like Dorian; a grassy, herbal scent shot with good leather and the faintest hint of sweet, smoky incense. It wasn’t a dream, he had been there. 

_He’d stayed_. Cullen had asked and he’d stayed; that Cullen can call to memory all too easily the heat of the mage’s body against his own is proof enough that his mind hadn’t conjured it, that it wasn’t simply a fevered longing, born of the stirrings of withdrawal and of loneliness. 

Dorian had stayed and then he hadn’t, leaving without a word. It didn’t make any sense and he supposes he’s more than used to that by now but familiarity breeds contempt, not understanding. It’s a loss and he’s used to losing but this one is keener than most, like pressing a thumb against a newly-purpled bruise. 

Cullen sighs as he pulls himself to his feet, undressing and donning his armor piece by piece with fumbling, frost-bitten fingers. The same wonderful smell from the blankets - one that is so uniquely Dorian - is tangled in the fur of his cloak as well and he already knows he’ll find himself burying his face in it until they’re both back at Skyhold together. 

He might have imagined it - what he thought they had between them - he thinks as he tugs at the laces of his boots, tying the leather tight against his calves. A man’s mind can convince itself of all sorts of untruths especially if the need has festered long enough, see longing glances where none exist, imagine that a touch lingers a moment too long when it doesn’t, mistake an easy joke for flirtation. And he’s hardly the best judge; alone too long, always grasping for meaning and clarity in an absurd world. A fatal flaw, perhaps; he knows that Dorian would declare it so with a playful sort of disdain if he dared confess it aloud. 

The camp is nearly empty save for a few exhausted scouts and soldiers gathered around the smoldering fire, the remains of the night watch. One, a familiar-looking young dwarven woman that he’s seen in the Herald’s Rest, spots him from across camp and approaches. Harding, that was her name. 

“Commander.”

He nods, chafing his hands together in a vain attempt to rub feeling back into his fingers. They don’t warm and he’s hardly surprised. “Scout Harding. Any news?” 

She shrugs, fingering the string of her bow. “We had word from some of Sister Nightingale’s agents in the night. The Inquisitor left early this morning with her party. Trouble in the Emprise.” 

“Ah.” The Inquisitor’s work is never done, apparently. That would explain Dorian’s unexpected departure although not the manner of it, slipping away silently into the night. “And the others?” 

“Still asleep. We’re not due to ride out for a few more hours,” she replies with a yawn. 

“Go get some sleep, I’ll watch if need be,” he orders. Even if he were to return to his bed sleep wouldn’t come, his mind too busy thinking on his nights with Dorian; their first kiss in his office, confessions at the Winter Palace and then last night with the mage in his arms when everything finally - blissfully - felt right. Better to do something useful even if he can’t silence the longing in his heart or ease the ache that’s settled deep between the bones of his ribs; at least it’s a distraction. 

He’s thankful for it.

* * *

It’s normally a weeklong ride back to Skyhold if the weather holds - and it rarely does in the mountains - but it takes longer still as he’s called to the Hinterlands with a small company to serve as Honor Guard for the dead. It’s more honor than duty, one he both relishes and dreads. The people have come to look upon the Inquisition as a saving force, one to be respected and he’s grateful that they’ve grown to fill that role; the finely tuned machine is a far cry from the hastily cobbled together, slightly dysfunctional organization they’d begun as. But this war has claimed too many and they’ve yet to do more than slow the bleeding. These appearances are too sharp a reminder of their failures and all that they’ve lost. Thedas’ soil is thick with the blood of its sons and daughters and he stopped writing down their names weeks ago; there’s not enough parchment or space in his heart to remember them all. 

He says a few words, his soldiers march in perfect formation to the awe of the watching crowd. They’ve come a long way since Haven when many of them had been so green, so hesitant in their abilities. It was a wonder they’d survived at all. 

They sing - the same hymn Mother Giselle had led them in after Corypheus’ attack on Haven - and his heart _hurts_ ; the last time he’d sung these words had been right before Dorian had first entered his consciousness, before his life had become so immeasurably complicated. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

Back at Skyhold he finds it empty; the Inquisitor and the rest of her party seem to have been delayed in the Emprise. Even Leliana has no estimates as to when they might return, try as he might to glean information from the Spymaster. He’s never been good at searching out secrets but still, he tries. 

Each day he makes his rounds through Skyhold, stopping by the tavern, Dorian’s alcove in the library, the gardens in the courtyard and the battlements hidden from view of the Inquisition’s soldiers, all places where Dorian might be but each day he finds them empty. 

Dorian’s not there, no matter how hard he looks. They should have been back from the Emprise days ago but the castle is still empty, too quiet, silence echoes against the stone walls once filled with laughter. 

He fills each day with work and still more work, slowly but surely making his way through the backlog of missives and requests that piled up while he was at Halamshiral. For once he’s grateful for the tedium of paperwork; it requires just enough of his concentration that he can’t spend each day worrying about Dorian’s whereabouts, imagining scenarios that left the whole party grievously wounded in the Emprise, each one more detailed and distressing than the last. 

It doesn’t stop the nightmares and more than once he wakes with a strangled sob thick in the back of his throat, blankets soaked with sweat. On these mornings he rises and sits at his desk, throwing one knife and then the next at the training dummy propped in the corner of his office until the terror leaves him. 

He runs drills with Cassandra. Every day it seems they have new recruits, no doubt the consequence of the Inquisition’s rapidly growing fame. He should be grateful for the extra hands but every day brings men and women so inept with a blade they’re more likely to stab themselves through the gut than damage an enemy. He tries to be encouraging, reminding them to block as they spar. The Seeker has none of his patience, he thinks back on the last few weeks with an unbearable sense of shame; she’s used all of hers up on him and he can’t quite find the words to thank her for her perseverance, for her friendship. But they drink together at night, whiling away the hours at the Herald’s Rest, and when he looks at her with a smile he thinks she knows despite his silence. 

“These last few weeks you have looked…” Cassandra looks down at the table, clutching her mug tightly. 

Cullen raises an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Well.” She finishes, fixing him with an intent look. 

“I have been. It comes and goes, you know that.” He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, choosing instead to scan the tavern once again despite knowing that who he seeks is absent. 

“That is not what I meant and you know it. You have looked... happy.” 

“I suppose I have been.” He shrugs, clearing his throat. It’s an odd thing for the Seeker to dwell on feelings and it leaves him unsure. 

“Good.” She places her hand tentatively on his forearm and he doesn’t pull away this time. “I’m pleased, Commander. I… care about you. I do not have very many friends but I count you among the few.”

* * *

On the eighth day, as he’s working with a promising group of new recruits in the training yard, the horns blare announcing the Inquisitor’s return. 

He drops his sword and shield, too eagerly he knows but if Lavellan is back then Dorian is as well. He takes the stairs down towards the stables two at a time only to find the mage storming up the steps towards the library and Lavellan waiting in the courtyard, staring helplessly in his direction. 

His stomach churns, heart racing. He forces himself to walk towards the Inquisitor instead of running after Dorian, plastering an artificial smile across his face. 

“Inquisitor! What news from the Emprise?” 

She’s still staring at him, crossing and uncrossing her fingers before her, the way she always does when she’s upset. Strange how their beacon of hope and strength could come undone so easily but then, she has always protested that she is not Maker-sent, just an elf who stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time who is doing the best she can. 

“Cullen,” she breathes, whipping her head back around to look towards the stairs. He closes his hands over hers, suddenly conscious of the way his fingers engulf hers. 

“Cullen. Talk to him. Please?” Her voice cracks and he thinks he should pull her closer until she breaks away, stalking off towards the stables.

* * *

He shouldn’t go to Dorian. It’s not his place, whatever ails the mage is clearly something personal - painful - something kept tightly under the surface. Whatever there is between them is tenuous, a thing easily broken, but Lavellan begged and so he starts the long climb up towards Dorian’s alcove. 

He finds the mage there, in the same place he’s looked for him this past week, staring out the window into the harsh, afternoon sun. 

Dorian doesn’t turn at his approach though he surely must hear him, all clanking armor and ringing footsteps in the quiet of the library. 

He raises a hand to the mage’s shoulder and Dorian tenses under his touch, then relaxes again. 

“Dorian…”

Dorian doesn’t turn to look at him, just keep staring out the window and it frightens him. He moves his hand farther up, running his fingers through the soft, unkempt curls at the base of his neck. 

“Commander.”

“Are you… alright?” He’s hesitant because Dorian’s tone is clipped and harsh, his muscles tensed so tightly they’re almost screaming, so very unlike the man he’s grown to know and love. 

“Perfectly,” Dorian says, the words spitting through his teeth like venom. 

“What happened in the Emprise?” 

“Nothing! Nothing at all happened in the Emprise, Commander. You, of all people should know that, I’m sure Leliana has more than brought you up to speed.”

Cullen takes a step back, letting his hand trail off Dorian’s neck until it comes to rest at the back of his own. 

“I…”

“Oh, of course you haven’t!” Dorian whirls around to face him, grey eyes flashing bright with fury. “You have no idea at all that we ended up in Redcliffe.”

He must have looked as baffled as he felt because as quickly as the rage had come Dorian’s face softens. 

“You really don’t, do you?” The mage falls into his chair, head in his hands. 

“The Inquisitor brought me to Redcliffe. Apparently there was a letter from my father. He was waiting there.” Dorian’s voice is soft - dangerous - full of anger barely hidden beneath the surface. 

“There seems… to be some bad blood between you and your family, Dorian.” He attempts and the laugh that Dorian lets out is heart-breaking. 

“That’s a remarkably apt turn of phrase.” 

“Did something happen in Redcliffe?” He fumbles with the fur on his mantle, wanting desperately to reach out to Dorian, to take him into his arms and fold the mage tightly into his chest, but knowing it wasn’t the time. 

“My father…” Dorian’s voice cracks and he takes a moment to rub at his eyes, smudging the kohl around them. 

“He was waiting there. For me. Maker only knows why. He said he just wanted to talk but…” 

“But what?” 

Dorian sighs as he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Before I came South he… he tried to change me.”

“Change you?”

“I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.” Dorian makes a small noise - not entirely unlike a sob but not one at the same time - and starts to turn back towards the window but Cullen catches his jaw with a deft hand, pulling the mage back towards him. 

“You shouldn’t have to. No one should ever…” He can’t imagine it, can’t even begin to fathom it. 

“It’s different in Tevinter, Cullen. Every family is trying to distill the perfect mage; perfect body, perfect mind. Every perceived flaw is shameful. So he tried to change me. He was going to perform a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable.” He shudders violently and it is then that he realizes that Dorian has started to cry. It's subtle - an inhalation just a bit too ragged to ignore, a slight sheen to his eyes that any other time might be missed, a tremble in his jaw that can't be hidden - but it's there. Cullen pulls him close until Dorian’s cheek rests against his breastplate. 

They stay like this for a good few minutes, Dorian shaking but leaning close against him, Cullen stroking his hair and whispering what he hopes is comfort into the mage’s ear. 

“Commander, I... thank you. But I should leave. I think it’s time for me to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day.” Dorian looks up at him and offers a wan smile; it's lopsided and teary but at least it’s familiar. “Join me, if you’ve a mind.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen knows all too well what aching stirs within his chest, the words he doesn’t dare speak. It’s been too many years but this - this desperate, twisting, wonderful pain that stills his breath and quickens his heart - is still familiar, the faint echo of a bruise that lingers until you finally stop poking at it. He would never stop.
> 
> It’s a precipice he’s standing on, one that is rapidly crumbling beneath him. One chance.
> 
> He jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/19/2015; new title. any thoughts? should i change it back?
> 
> thank you to everyone who's stuck with me through this. it's been an ordeal; hopefully the next few chapters will be smoother. 
> 
> please say something if you like it. because i hate it and kind of want to set it on fire. although in the interest of full disclosure i should point out that i hate _all_ of my writing and want to set a lot of things on fire lately. it's not personal. 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger. come hang out with me! be my friend. send me dirty stuff in tevene. whatever.

_Don’t_ , Cullen thinks, as he pulls Dorian closer against him, so close the mage’s breath fogs the steel of his armor. 

Don’t leave. Don’t walk out of the library alone. Don’t push everyone else aside, choosing instead to seek refuge at the bottom of another bottle. Don’t find a noisy corner in the tavern where Dorian can hide and drink away the night and he can’t follow. Don’t pretend that there’s nothing between them, even if Cullen can yet to find the words to describe what exactly is between them. A few stolen kisses, words that could yet prove to mean nothing. 

It’s strange, this sense of not-knowing. He has always been a man of certainties; he’s taken comfort in the easy dichotomies of right or wrong, good or evil, yes or no. This, whatever this is, is something else entirely. 

Whatever it is it’s a something he’s spent a lifetime avoiding, one he needs more than anything now. 

Cullen knows all too well what aching stirs within his chest, the words he doesn’t dare speak. It’s been too many years but this - this desperate, twisting, _wonderful_ pain that stills his breath and quickens his heart - is still familiar, the faint echo of a bruise that lingers until you finally stop poking at it. He would never stop. 

It’s a precipice he’s standing on, one that is rapidly crumbling beneath him. One chance. 

He jumps. 

“I… I think I would like to. Join you, I mean,” Cullen murmurs as he cards a hand through Dorian’s hair, pushing the fallen forelock back up over the mage’s brow. He leans over until his lips nearly brush across the mage’s soft skin, instead trailing across his hair and Cullen swallows back a sigh of pleasure at the sensation. 

“You?” Dorian laughs as he takes the offered hand, clinging to it as he stands. “Join me in the tavern? My dear Commander, are you ill? Surely you’re worried about the troops seeing you with the evil magister and his cronies?”

“Altus,” Cullen smiles. “As you have so frequently reminded everyone.” 

Dorian huffs a laugh as he leans back against Cullen’s waiting arm. “You remembered.”

 _Maker’s breath_. He wants to kiss Dorian so very badly, his entire being quivers with it but he can’t. Not now; when Dorian is vulnerable, when he has been hurt, when it would be so easy to push him over the edge into doing exactly what Cullen has scarcely dared to dream of these past few months. 

If he did that to Dorian he knows he would never forgive himself. It would haunt him, another ghost to tease at the edges of his consciousness; another wound inside of him, scabbed over, one he would never stop pulling at the edges of. It would never heal. 

Cullen takes a step away - barely noticeable but it’s there - clasps his hands in front of his chest and clears his throat. “Shall we get that drink?” 

Dorian makes a small sound of approval and the barest hint of a smile twitches beneath his mustache.

* * *

The Herald’s Rest is teeming with thirsty customers tonight. There are the regulars of course as well as a contingent of Antivan nobles delighting in slumming with the troops, a fresh batch of recruits battered and bruised from the days’ training and a mercenary company just in from Val Royeaux. Their leader is a devastatingly beautiful blonde and Cullen notices with a reluctant grin that Sera has left her perch on the second floor to fawn - even if her version of fawning includes throwing curses in every direction and slamming back mugs of ale - at the new warrior’s elbow. 

Cullen pushes his way through the throng up to the bar. He orders two of whatever is the least repulsive of Cabot’s current stock, ignoring the glare the bartender shoots him as he turns. He’s indulged here often enough to know that unless threatened Cabot would bring out whatever swill he was hoping to offload this week rather than anything drinkable. The dwarf returns with two mugs and a scowl etched across his face that only lightens as Cullen presses a few extra coins into his waiting hand. 

His eyes scan the tavern until he finds Dorian holding court among Bull’s Chargers. He looks just as in his element here as he did at Halamshiral, Cullen thinks with a sudden burst of envy. Dorian seems to be at home everywhere but he only finds comfort and solace at the mage’s side. It’s hardly fair.

* * *

Dorian starts at the touch of a gloved hand on his shoulder. He turns to glare at whoever had just interrupted his anecdote but softens as he looks up into the Commander’s warm eyes and takes the mug offered to him. 

“What is this?” He sniffs at the murky liquid with disdain. 

“The best of whatever Cabot’s willing to give up under threat of weeks of torture, possibly under Dagna’s supervision as she attempts to discover why exactly it is that dwarves don’t dream,” Cullen stifles a laugh as he drops, surprisingly elegantly Dorian thinks, onto the waiting stool. 

“You wouldn’t!” 

“Of course not!” Cullen replies, affronted but with a slight smirk pulling at his lips. “But he doesn’t know that, does he?” 

“Oh, you _are_ evil. I knew you had it in you,” Dorian chuckles as he leans in to peck a quick kiss across the man’s cheek. 

In front of everyone. 

And then there’s the flush, warmth spreading up from his chest up his neck and into his cheeks but he finds he doesn’t mind. Bull’s staring with a small smirk, one so subtle anyone else might miss it, but it’s there. For once in his life he has the discretion not to say anything aloud but he does elbow Cullen in the ribs, rather softly for a Qunari but still enough to jar him and make him choke on his ale, sputter and cough.

* * *

Cullen had only meant to stay in the tavern a short while yet it’s hours and too many badly-sung songs later when they finally walk out of the Rest into the courtyard. 

“Well,” Dorian says, huffing a breath into the frozen night air that hangs before his face, crystals glimmering softly into the moonlight. “Here is where we part. I suppose all good things must come to an end.”

“It… doesn’t have to be over. Tonight, I mean.” Cullen stares across the courtyard to the stables where a soft light is flickering. Blackwall, most likely, carving away at a fresh stump and his own demons. 

"You have something else in mind?" Dorian’s tone is light and that’s always dangerous, that much he’s learned over the past few months. 

“I… there’s a bottle of wine in my office. A good one, even according to your standards I imagine. Josephine sent it.” He trails his fingers lightly through Dorian’s hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen across his brow. 

As if in response Dorian threads his fingers through his as he takes his hand and walks towards the stairs. “Why, Commander. It almost sounds as though you’re trying to get me drunk in order to take advantage of me?” 

Cullen swallows back a laugh. A dreadful thing to joke about, to be sure, but that is the one way Dorian has always been predictable; always joking at the least appropriate moment. 

“Surely you know me better than that by now?” He opens the door to his office, ushering the mage in, a hand flush against the small of his back. 

Dorian hums softly in agreement. “Sadly, yes. You are nothing if not too honorable for such a thing, it’s rather infuriating really.”

“Infuriating.” Cullen raises an eyebrow at that as he shuts the door behind them and crosses to his desk where the bottle and two passably clean though slightly dusty glasses are waiting. He huffs a quick breath against the rims to knock off the worst of it, examining them critically. They’ll do. 

“Yes,” Dorian hisses, grey eyes flashing bright and dangerously. “Infuriating. Have you any idea how long I have been pursuing you?”

“I… no?” He busies himself with pouring. That at least is something he can understand; the conversation going on around him is another story entirely. 

Dorian. Pursuing him. Him? Impossible. 

“No, of course you haven’t. You’re too focused on your men, of course. On duty. All very admirable, to be sure, but perhaps there’s something you’ve neglected to think on? A matter of the heart, perhaps?” Dorian moves like water flowing under the frozen surface of a river; silently, dangerously and before he can blink Dorian’s beside him, so close he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. 

“I haven’t neglected it, Dorian, I…”

“Oh, so you simply thought on it and found me unworthy of your attention? Except for our few, brief moments. What did you think that was? What _were_ those to you anyway? Unwanted? A momentary diversion?” Dorian’s cheeks flush with a quick burst of temper.

“I… no, that’s not it at all! Maker’s breath, Dorian. You’ve never been unworthy of my attention. If anything, it’s I who doesn’t deserve yours. If I’ve pulled away it is only because of that, because you should hardly waste your time on the likes of me. If you knew how long I’ve wanted this… wanted you. Unwanted? Nothing could be further from the truth.” He closes his hands around Dorian’s, clasping the mage’s fingers between his own.

“So why is it an issue? This is what you want. Me. I’m what you want.” Dorian sighs in frustration and shakes his head, words more than slightly clipped with annoyance. “We want the same thing. Why does everything with you have to be so difficult?”

“You are. And I’m sorry, Dorian. I truly am. But you’re… upset. Vulnerable. It would be… inappropriate. I can’t. If I took advantage of that right now I would never forgive myself,” he says, huffing out a shaky breath. 

This was drastically taking a turn for the worse he had not anticipated, one he had not mapped and plotted weeks beforehand until he was comfortable with the twists and turns this battle might take. 

“It’s not inappropriate! Or if it is I want to be inappropriate. Doesn’t what I want matter?” Dorian makes a small noise of exasperation in the back of his throat as he throws up his hands. 

“I’m not a child or easily taken advantage of, Commander. And I, at least, know what I want. It hasn’t changed since the courtyard or since Halamshiral.” Hands wrap across his chest, hips jut against the small of his back and Cullen swallows back a moan. “But what do you want?” 

Cullen can’t stand it anymore - this interminable teasing - and before Dorian can rant on further he whirls around and silences him with a kiss. 

Dorian tastes of magic - bitter, metallic, _perfect_ \- and heady, intoxicating spices and he’s hungry for this, starving; he needs more. He trails his hands down the mage’s body, fingers sliding across hipbones to grab at his ass beneath his robes and just when Dorian shudders and gasps he slides his tongue into Dorian’s mouth. He can’t stop - won’t stop - kissing him, deepening their embrace, his fingers curl through Dorian’s hair, tightening around each soft, dark strand to pull him nearer until there’s no space between them. Just desperate, wandering hands, hipbone against hipbone, shuddering breaths echoing through ribcages and always the press of Dorian’s lips against his own, teeth grazing against his skin and _oh fuck, Maker_ , he can’t resist any longer no matter the cost. 

“You know what I want,” he growls into Dorian’s mouth, ragged fingernails raking up Dorian’s back, pulling him closer. 

“I… ah!” Dorian hisses as Cullen’s lips ghost against lips and down his neck, teeth nipping at the hollow where neck meets collarbone. “I don’t think I do. Perhaps... you should show me, Commander.” The words come out between shuddered gasps as he leans into the embrace. 

“Up,” the man rasps, his lips teasing at Dorian’s jawline then trailing back up towards his lips, capturing his mouth in another rough, desperate kiss. Stubble against soft skin, a moan breathed into the man’s mouth and suddenly a distant rumbling like thunder; laughter as the man curls under the touch of his fingertips trailing across his stomach. Cullen pulls away slightly, panting hard, the sudden distance enough to tease a whine from his very depths. Dorian threads a hand tighter through his hair to pull him back into the embrace, leans in closer to reach for his lips but Cullen pushes away and motions back towards the ladder. 

“We have to go up,” he shrugs apologetically, fingers working at the buckles of his armor. “A runner might pop in any minute, or there are always Leliana’s damned birds.” Cullen eases his breastplate over his head and sheds his pauldrons - letting them fall to the ground with a clatter - leaving nothing but his simple linen tunic and leather trousers. 

“Why is it always ladders? _Fasta vass_! The South and its bloody ladders,” Dorian’s voice quavers as the second rung creaks menacingly beneath the leather of his boots but up he climbs; the reward, as implied, seems to be more than worth the effort.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s electric, this; like everything with Dorian is electric. He’s never been a man of subtleties, more prone to quick flares of temper and the sudden quiet they leave behind. Dorian’s the crackle of lightning beneath his fingertips, the quick flash of light in the darkness that draws him like a moth to a flame, the current leaping frenetically between them, the sudden onset of a storm that can’t be stopped until both are sated. If Dorian is lightning - all flash and heat, leaping quickly for every opportunity - then he must be thunder and the long, slow rumble that trails behind and never quite catches up, Cullen muses as he deepens the kiss - flicking at Dorian’s perfectly white teeth with the tip of his tongue, laughing at the low whine it elicits from the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make me really, really happy. and make me less convinced that i'm a terrible writer. 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger. come play with me! i like (read: desperately crave) new friends.

“Commander?” Dorian calls from the loft, voice reedy against the wind’s screaming through the missing slats of his roof. “I don’t mean to alarm you but there seems to be a hole in your ceiling!”

“Yes. I had noticed that,” Cullen replies dryly as he pulls himself up the last rung, sitting on the bare wooden slats to tug at the laces of his boots. “But it serves.” And so it does; the cold, though not pleasant, has become a constant companion since joining the Inquisition, something he can rely on. He wouldn’t ask for more, it would hardly do for him to make demands. But then, he’s never brought anyone back to his bed, not even the poor, lovesick serving girl who always hovers at his elbow when he retires to the tavern to drink away yet another headache. It wouldn’t have been right. But perhaps it does mean he can’t speak to how it serves. 

And perhaps this isn’t right either. But _Maker_ , it feels right. For the first time in his life he thinks that he might be willing to trust his own instincts.

“It serves? I suppose it does, doesn’t it? The way Seggrit used to serve the Inquisition. Poorly,” Dorian laughs, his fingers working at the first of many knots holding his armor together. Cullen still thinks it’s a ridiculous garment, even as he watches the mage deftly unhasp one closure and then the next.

Cullen snorts back a laugh as he stands, suddenly self conscious as the evidence of his own poor circumstances comes to light. A battered crate serving as an end table, a few more for storage, and nothing else but a bed; sheets almost certainly dusty from ill-use given how often of late he’s woken at his desk, cheek creased from the reports that have served as a pillow. Dorian however, seems completely unaware, his gaze fixed on the starlight streaming through the missing bits of roof.

“It’s not _that_ bad, it’s just a small hole.” Cullen says as wraps an arm around Dorian’s waist, hand lightly encircling the mage’s wrist, thumb rubbing soft circles against the delicate skin. Dorian leans back into him and he can’t quite stop the soft hum of pleasure that escapes from between his lips. He leans down to bury his nose in Dorian’s hair - redolent with the spicy, herbal oils he uses to tame the strands - and breathes in deeply. 

“Small?” Dorian scoffs with a smirk and an eye-roll as he turns to face the blond. “Perhaps but only if the highest peaks of the Frostbacks could accurately be described as a series of low, rolling hills.”

“It is a massive hole; you have more hole than roof at this point. It’s a bloody miracle you’ve not caught your death of consumption and perished, slowly withering away under a pile of paperwork. Are you truly going to tell me that you reported this to Josephine and she declined your request for a work order? I have a difficult time believing that she would deny the shining jewel of the Inquisition’s forces a few wooden boards to shield him from the South’s relentless winters?”

“I didn’t ask,” Cullen whispers as he trails his lips down Dorian’s neck, kissing at the soft skin on his way down, pausing at the hollow divot where neck met collarbone. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Dorian breathes then gasps as the gentle touch . “The stars. Reliving your boyhood days? You ridiculous, romantic idiot. Save me from your misguided sense of Southern nostalgia and sentimentality.”

Dorian seems set to continue on until Cullen kisses him again, the rest of his ranting exchanged for a quiet moan, hot breath echoing into the blond’s mouth. 

It’s electric, this; like everything with Dorian is electric. He’s never been a man of subtleties, more prone to quick flares of temper and the sudden quiet they leave behind. Dorian’s the crackle of lightning beneath his fingertips, the quick flash of light in the darkness that draws him like a moth to a flame, the current leaping frenetically between them, the sudden onset of a storm that can’t be stopped until both are sated. If Dorian is lightning - all flash and heat, leaping quickly for every opportunity - then he must be thunder and the long, slow rumble that trails behind and never quite catches up, Cullen muses as he deepens the kiss - flicking at Dorian’s perfectly white teeth with the tip of his tongue, laughing at the low whine it elicits from the other man. 

That’s certainly how they seem to have come to this. 

“This is all very well and good, Commander,” Dorian breathes, panting slightly as he pulls away from the kiss. “But I have to wonder, if the endgame is what I suspect… _fasta vass_ why are we still wearing so many blasted clothes?” 

Cullen rumbles a chuckle but as he pulls at the hem of his tunic he finds his hands are shaking too much to manage it. He fumbles with the cloth for what feels like hours before throwing his hands up and letting out a short, desperate whine that he would be ashamed of in his more coherent moments. 

“Here. Let me,” Dorian says as he reaches for the man’s shirt, deftly pulling it over his head and letting it flutter to the floor.

Cullen tries to return the favor, fingers working at the remaining fastenings of the mage’s armor but it doesn’t loosen the way he expects and soon he’s grumbling under his breath, pink-cheeked. “Maker what is this northern nonsense? Even your clothing doesn’t make sense!” He growls under his breath as Dorian swats his hands away and loosens the remaining knots, shivering in the cool night air as the leather falls to the ground. 

Cullen can’t help but stare; Dorian is exquisite, smooth skin the color of well-aged whisky and muscles worthy of any distinguished warrior rippling underneath. His normally immaculate tresses have fallen haphazardly across his brow and Cullen thinks that he’s never looked more beautiful than now when he’s ever-so-slightly undone. Dorian’s nothing what like he had expected a mage to look like but, he supposes with a hint of regret, he’d only ever known mages trapped against their will in the Circles before. Not ones who had been allowed to live up to their full potential. And that’s Dorian; strong, determined, powerful… and stunningly gorgeous. 

“Commander?” Dorian’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts. The mage is standing before him - _shrinking_ \- as though his momentary distraction has caused a mortal wound. 

“Maker, but you’re _beautiful_ ,” he whispers before he can even think to stop himself, fingers grazing lightly up Dorian’s chest. Dorian shudders beneath him, squirming - ticklish, apparently and Cullen saves this knowledge for another time - as he leans in to kiss him again, his other hand carding through Dorian’s hair. The mage’s dark waves are horribly mussed now and if Dorian were sensible he might think to complain but he’s still closed-eyed and whimpering under Cullen’s touch; it will do for now. 

Cullen guides him slowly up against the wall as he kneels, fingers teasing at the fastening of his leathers, pulling them slowly down below his hips to reveal the mage’s half-hardening erection. 

“Say my name, please?” Cullen whispers hoarsely, the words are out before he can stop himself.

Dorian obliges immediately, with no hesitation. “ _Cullen_. Please…” _Oh fuck_. The words work almost instantaneously; Cullen feels himself crumbling, falling to pieces as he roughly pulls the mage’s trousers even further down and takes his glistening head between his lips - pulling Dorian deep into the depths of his mouth and then releasing - a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, teasing at the scar that runs through them, as Dorian whimpers and whines above him. 

“I suppose I hardly need to ask if you’ve done this before,” Dorian chokes, his body quivering beneath the touch of the man’s lips, a hand threaded through the blond’s curls, tensing tighter against each tremor of pleasure. 

Cullen smirks, his gazes locking onto Dorian’s; golden brown eyes catching against silver in the moonlight. “No. I suppose you don’t.” And the vibration of his voice and the clench of his lips around Dorian’s cock say it all; within an instant Dorian is so much closer to the edge of his climax than is comfortable, so close he can’t help but sob and writhe against the sensation, trying desperately to rid it from his bones.

Dorian forces himself to focus, wills himself stay still; a feat that proves difficult and it’s only the strength of the man’s hands, locked onto his hipbones, that keeps him from fucking the blond’s mouth. He manages to pull out just long enough to let Cullen take in a few ragged breaths, completely entranced by the look of ecstasy written across his face as he takes Dorian in again, all softness and slick warmth. 

“Cullen. Oh… Cullen. Cullen, please.” Dorian bucks his hips as the man tips his head back, allowing him the full length of his throat as his tongue wraps deftly around his shaft, tightening around him then releasing with each unsteady thrust. 

The blond’s hands lock tighter against his hips, pressing him back against the wall as he bobs up and down; slowly first, teasing at each throb of Dorian’s cock against his tongue then quicker again. Cullen looks up with a tight-lipped smile - the pressure of which nearly destroys him - catches his gaze and laughs, the sound rumbling against his skin until he spills over with a cry, babbling incoherent phrases to the heavens - possibly not even in the common tongue - with every twitch and sob. 

Cullen swallows him back without hesitation, lips curling in a small smile as he tastes the hot bitterness tinged with the faintly metallic thrum of magic always present in him. 

Dorian doesn’t think that he cries out to the Maker. He thinks he might have whispered Cullen’s name, the closest to divinity he’s ever felt, between shuddering, sobbing breaths. Or perhaps he had been silent, words bitten back against soft lips now rimmed with fresh blood. He doesn’t know. 

What he does know is the moment that his legs finally buckle under him and he slides to the floor - his whole body shaking - head hanging forward to rest on his knees. 

“Dorian,” Cullen whispers, voice barely audible over the screaming of the wind. Dorian feels warm, calloused hands close over his wrists, tugging at him until he finds his feet again. 

“Dorian,” Cullen says - louder now - as they fall onto the waiting bed which protests the extra weight with a soft creaking groan. Dorian first, then Cullen who buries his face in the mage’s shoulder as he falls. 

“Dorian.” And now it’s a prayer, whispered at some forgotten altar and Dorian’s undone - his own exhaustion forgotten - as he straddles Cullen’s hips and leans over to kiss the man again and again and again as he reaches down for his erection, giving the man a few long, slow strokes. 

“I… ah!” Cullen whispers into his mouth, whining as he tries but fails to rut against the mage’s hands. . “Dorian… please?”

“No. Not yet,” he whispers as he slows his hand, letting his fingers trail softly across the man’s balls, smirking at the soft whine of pleasure that escapes from the blond. 

“Do you even know how gorgeous you are right now?” Dorian asks as he leans over to press a kiss to the man’s stomach, inching lower and lower towards his hardening erection. 

“Don’t… don’t tease, Dorian… I’m not…” Cullen rasps and he writhes beneath him, a hand raising to reach for his hair to pull him closer. 

“You are.” Dorian replies, dodging the touch, as he nips at the man’s hipbones then teasingly trails his tongue up along the scar that traverses up Cullen’s ribcage. 

“I have wanted you,” Dorian whispers, teasing at one dusky pink nipple with his teeth and the other with his fingernails. “Ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

Cullen is silent, if fidgeting under his touch, for a moment, eyes closed. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Dorian says, rising to sit back up again, ready to pull away and flee back down the ladder. “I apologize, Commander.”

Cullen pulls at his hips, a small, frustrated noise escaping from the back of his throat. 

“I suppose I’m not very good at this,” Cullen says, gazing deep into Dorian’s eyes, a hand clasping the mage’s jaw to steady him. “But I should try, if only to keep you from running out in the cold without your armor to escape.” 

“You should know… you deserve to know. I’ve wanted you longer than I should admit,” Cullen murmurs, raising up slightly to kiss Dorian again. Softly first, just a delicate worshipping of his mouth then teasing at his lips with his teeth before exploring the threshold with his tongue, pressing farther in as the kiss deepens. They don’t part again until they’re both breathless, panting and aching for more. 

“I’ve wanted you since you first stumbled through Haven’s gates,” Cullen murmurs as he thrusts his hips up against him - Dorian’s rhythmic rocking matching his own - hands running down the mage’s lithe body to rest at the swells of his back just above his ass. He digs his fingernails in, smirking as the mage shudders and gasps at the sudden rush of unexpected, wonderful pain. 

“Since you first ended up in my arms,” He whispers, fingers pushing errant, sweaty strands back from Dorian’s face behind his ear. 

“And every time since then,” Their thrusts quicken now, his cock twitching, aching against the friction of their bodies moving together in harmony. Cullen presses a line of kisses down his taut abdomen, finally coming to rest at the hollow where the shapely swell of hip met muscled thigh; he bites down to muffle a cry as the mage reaches back to softly cup at his swelling, tightening balls. 

Cullen arches into him again and again until finally - mercifully - he comes to his release, his face buried in Dorian’s skin, absorbing the desperate whimpers and cries he can’t swallow back. 

“I’ve never stopped,” he whispers raggedly once he can catch his breath and rely on his voice again. “I will never stop.”

Dorian makes a small noise of contentment as he smiles but his eyes are sad, thick with some unspoken pain glimmering beneath the surface. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks as Dorian slides further down onto the bed to lie next to him, close but somehow still distant. 

“It’s just…” Dorian sighs. “This is all very different for me.” 

“Different? I thought this was what you wanted?” He tries but fails to swallow back the panic rising in the back of his throat like bile, tries to blink back the swelling darkness rapidly taking over his sight. He had taken advantage of Dorian, just as he'd feared. It wasn't what he'd wanted, _he_ wasn't what Dorian had wanted. It was all his fault. “ _Maker’s breath_ , Dorian I thought this was what you wanted. I never…”

“No!” Dorian catches hold of his wrist, thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles against his palm until he calms, his breath slowing as his vision returns. “This… _you_ … are what I wanted. Want. It’s just…” 

“ _Fasta vass_!” Dorian growls under his breath. “It’s rather difficult to explain. In Tevinter… anything between two men. It’s pleasure, and nothing more. You learn not to hope for more.” He shrugs by way of explanation, the motion putting distance between them. 

Cullen rolls over and wraps an arm around Dorian’s waist, pulling him closer until the tight lines of his body loosen against him. “This _is_ more. At least, I hope it is? All I can promise is that I want more… as long as you do.”

Dorian’s silent as he combs his fingers through the mage’s hair - teasing out the soft curls that he always makes sure to tame - other hand tracing up his inner thigh; he huffs a silent laugh into Dorian’s back as he shudders beneath the touch. 

“Cullen…” The way Dorian says his name is as silent as a sigh in the winter night’s wind but he hears it still. “I want more too.”

“Good,” Cullen replies as he pulls a blanket over the both of them. “You will actually stay this time, won’t you?”

Dorian laughs, a soft rumble deep in the base of his chest as he squirms closer in to the man’s warmth. “For you?” 

“Always.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous, post-nightmare smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: xhermionedanger
> 
> i love new friends, come play with me! or just comment. comments make me think i might not be shit after all.

_How long has it been since he was imprisoned here?_

_Weeks? Days? Perhaps only hours. Each moment is agony, sheer terror digs deep within him, grasping talons clawing at his insides, ripping him to shreds._

_The air is thin now, each breath burns his lungs as he tries not to gasp for more. There wasn’t more; no cool kiss of relief would come, spilling down his throat and clearing the darkness from his vision. All that remained was thick with blood and magic; he could taste it on the tip of his tongue, feel it seeping through his skin, infecting him._

_The shimmering walls of the chamber draw closer, pressing tight against his skin. Burning, corrupting; it would take all of him, leave nothing but death and destruction in its wake._

_He knows it as a certainty; he will die here, just like the others._

_The screaming had stopped but the silence was as threatening as the commotion had been. They were dead, he was sure of it. All of them. His friends. His brothers._

_Blood on the floor, blood on his armor._

_Blood on his fingers and he doesn’t know whose anymore. The chamber is littered with bodies, strewn haphazardly across the cold stone floor like discarded ragdolls. He knows their faces, their fears, the weaknesses they carry with them to the Fade._

_The Warden questions him relentlessly, the voice he once sought refuge in now laced with horror and disgust._

_He sobs in a shaky breath that burns as it catches in the depths of his lungs._

_He can’t breathe._

_He can’t breathe but somehow he’s still screaming. The sound echoes in the chamber, filling the space between every errant thought until it’s all he can hear. His own scream on an endless loop._

_She wants answers. He has none and he would give no answers to a demon. He would throw himself on his own sword rather than submit he tells himself. He would not be tempted, not by this monster that appeared before him. How predictable to come to him wearing her skin, as though he might be enticed. He wouldn’t be enticed._

_It’s a lie and he knows it. Soon, too soon, he would give in. Promise anything for even a second of relief._

_“Please… Enough visions! If anything in you is human… kill me now… and stop this game!” The walls press closer still, compressing his ribs as he gasps in a shaky breath._

“Cullen.” 

_A whisper cutting through the night. Another demon. Come to torment him. It wears a face. It’s familiar but… he can’t quite place it. And then the lips curl and it’s wrong. All wrong. It should have been her, still standing before him, but it isn’t and for the briefest moment it feels right._

_It isn’t right. Is it?_

_It is._

_The angles of a jaw he could trace for hours. Lips pressing against his own, lips he could bite until they swelled with passion. The curl of dark, soft hair falling across a strong brow. It doesn’t belong there but yet… it does. Oh, it does._

_No. It can’t be right, not here, not now._

_No._

_Not again. He shakes his head, digs his knuckles into his eyes, his fingernails into his palms until they bleed as he stifles a sob but when he opens them again the man is still there._

_“No! Using my shame against me… my ill-advised infatuation with him… a mage, of all things!”_

_The walls tighten, the air thickens until his ribs feel like they might collapse, crumble beneath him. He can’t breathe, can hardly speak save a strangled “no… leave me… please? Please? Just kill me… You’ve had your fun demon. Just… leave me.”_

***

Dorian has never been a sound sleeper, even back in Tevinter. The early morning sun would always rouse him before his father’s slaves could enter to wake him for the day and he was grateful enough for it then. Now he wakes with the Fereldan sun over the mountains each morning - rays which offered no warmth against what seemed an eternal winter - even when he would rather groan, curl back under the blanket and forget the call of dawn.

Every slow, piercing ray calls him to waking no matter how he fights it, struggles against the call of consciousness. 

Today he doesn’t fight it at all; he’s jerked into wakening by Cullen twitching and mumbling in his arms. 

“No…” Cullen whimpers, struggling against him with surprising strength for one still clearly asleep. “Leave me… please…” 

“Cullen?” He breathes, thumb tracing lightly across the furrows of the man’s brow. 

At the sound of his voice Cullen starts suddenly and thrashes in his sleep, throwing an arm across his face. Dorian looks down at him; eyes clenched shut, skin too pale in some places and flush in others. Shaking. _Dreaming_. He presses his lips gently onto his forehead, once and then again. The touch is so light it’s hardly a kiss at all, just a brushing of skin on skin and Dorian thinks to himself that it’s even more intimate. 

“Shhhhh… you’re only sleeping, it’s alright...” Dorian whispers, trailing his fingers softly across the man’s brow and gently through his sleep-rumpled curls. 

Cullen stills in his arms, moaning softly; limbs still twitching but no longer flailing. 

“Cullen,” he tries again, louder this time but just barely above a whisper. The blond doesn’t wake and it’s just as well, he supposes. Dorian dimly remembers his childhood nursemaid telling him _you should never wake a dreamer, pet_ as he demanded to know why she let him suffer through yet another night of dreams - blood and magic - that left him gasping, screaming as he woke. 

“No… I will not resist… Leave me, demon!” 

“Cullen!” Dorian hisses as he scrambles to sit up out of reach of the warrior’s arms, leaning back against the headboard. 

*** 

Cullen wakes with a start, gasping in lungful after lungful of blissfully cold, mountain air, fingers fisting the blankets he’s tangled in. 

_One._

He looks up to find the same sky he’s seen for months now; soft sunlight rising over the Frostbacks, storm clouds in the distance. He counts each missing slat, one by one, slowing his breath in time with each number. 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

Moment by moment his vision clears, the sky through the hole in his roof slowly turning from too many shades of grey to vivid oranges and pinks streaking across the horizon. 

_Two._

He’s lying down, not sitting. Not confined in a cage. The mattress is lumpy, the pillows bunched under his face but it’s his - each scrap of fabric molded to fit his body - and familiar; not a prison. 

_Three._

There is no jailkeeper here. No Warden, no companions. He chances a look around and there is no one save… Dorian. 

Dorian who is curled up against the headboard, knees tight into his chest and arms curled protectively around them, watching him; eyes glistening with something wavering between concern and fear. 

Dorian who sighs suddenly, blinking away the fear as he moves closer towards him. The warmth of him is wonderful and Cullen wants nothing more than to curl up against him, cling to him as the last tendrils of terror clutching at his chest unfurl and leave him. 

Dorian who is reaching out to tangle his fingers through his hair. 

“Are you… alright?”

***

He sits up quickly, dizzy from the sudden movement. Sitting on the edge of the bed he casts about frantically for his discarded clothing. 

“I… I am so sorry, Dorian. You should not have had to see that. I should go.” He grasps at his smallclothes, starting to stand and then there are strong arms on his hips pulling him back into bed. 

“Go? Cullen, where are you planning on going?” Dorian laughs hesitantly as he moves to sit behind him, folding the man into him, his arms clasped lightly across his chest. “We’re in your quarters, where would you go to escape?” 

Cullen sighs as the mage’s fingertips brush across his stomach, losing his resolve to storm off to the training grounds to hack away at the training dummies and his fears entirely. 

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks, his fingers threading through Cullen’s. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he warns with another sigh, turning to hide his face and rest his cheek against Dorian’s chest. 

“I’m not asking you to talk about it,” Dorian replies, trailing a hand up his chest and then his neck, tracing the curves of his ear and then up into his hair. A small shudder of pleasure escapes him, the soft brush of each of the mage’s fingers teasing out a shiver. 

“ _Maker’s breath_ , Dorian…” he breathes as the mage’s hands slowly move their way through his hair, pausing to rub slow circles over the swells of his scalp, each slowly inching closer towards his brow. 

“Cullen, if you don’t want this... Dorian starts, pausing to press a kiss to his nape. “If you don’t want me to be here, you need to tell me.”

He’s silent; he thinks he might let a small whimper escape his lips as Dorian digs one finger and then the next into his temples, his other hand stroking purposefully through Cullen’s hair. 

“If you want me to leave and pretend this never happened I will. I won’t be happy about it, but… I will respect it. I’ve been a port in a storm before. But you need to say it now. Better now than later, when the pain of leaving would be intolerable.” 

Dorian pulls his hands away and Cullen knows that he whines at the loss of the touch, he might be ashamed of it later but now? All he can think of is the feel of Dorian’s hands through his hair, the soft but demanding press of Dorian’s lips against his own, the feel of his body pressed into his back and the way they fit so well together; the angles of the mage’s body perfectly in line with the curves of his own. 

His only answer is to curl back into Dorian, one leg slung over the mage’s, arms wrapped around his chest. He tucks his face in the hollow divot where long neck meets collarbone, shaking his head slightly. 

Distantly he thinks he should feel ashamed for behaving so childishly, seeking comfort in another as he hasn’t since he was a small boy. He doesn’t. It feels right. 

Dorian chuckles and leans down to lay a soft kiss across his brow. “Had I know you were this warm and… cuddly, Cullen, I might have been a bit more forward earlier. You make an excellent personal heater, something I could have done with after being dragged out to the Emprise.” 

He huffs a soft laugh in response, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. The dream has yet to leave him entirely and he unclenches one muscle and then the next, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Dorian’s chest. He closes his eyes, relaxing into the mage’s skin, breathing in time with him. 

“Dorian… I want… I need to tell you about it,”

He takes the silence as an invitation and soon the words are pouring from him; he tells Dorian of the horrors of the Circle Tower, the demons that taunted him, his transfer to Kirkwall and how he failed there. How he indulged his own fear and hatred over his duty to protect his charges, how he allowed Meredith to encourage his hatred until it nearly consumed him, nearly made him make the wrong decision at the end. 

“It was… I am not proud of the man it made me. The man I still am, in my weakest moments. No apology will ever be adequate in the face of what I have done.”

Silence. 

Moments pass. Dorian still doesn’t speak and he panics, a stone growing in the pit of his stomach until it threatens to burst from his chest. 

When he least expects it Dorian answers and suddenly, his salvation comes. The mage chooses his words carefully, each one slow and considered. “I didn’t choose to be with you because you’re perfect, Cullen. Maker knows we all have regrets, darkness hidden deep within us that we pray will never come to light.”

Then there’s a tickling sensation at the back of his neck and he can’t quell the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. 

“Ticklish, are we?” Dorian murmurs, mustache teasing at his skin and it’s all he can do to stifle the giggle that’s rising within him. Dorian moves his hands purposefully down his back, stroking every inch of his skin from the base of his skull down to the swell of his ass. 

Cullen hums noncommittally, sinking deeper into Dorian’s touch. His cock twitches as Dorian’s fingers knead at his lower back, just above the swell of his cheeks; unconsciously he bucks his hips up only to hiss and lie back as Dorian swats at his ass. 

Suddenly the touch is gone and he twists around, staring accusingly at Dorian as he finds him sitting back up against the headboard. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Dorian asks, staring at him so intently he feels the sudden urge to turn away. 

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

Dorian shakes his head and rubs at his jaw with the heel of a hand. “Cullen, I need you to tell me. What do you want?”

He takes a deep breath. “Dorian.” It comes out an unsteady squeak and he clears his throat to try again. “I… I want you to fuck me.”

The mage nods, almost too quickly. “Do you have oil?”

Cullen rises and rifles through the crate serving as an end table. His fingers find the small glass vial and he presses it into Dorian’s waiting hand as he lies back. 

Dorian moves to straddle his legs, leaning down to press a trail of kisses up his chest. He yelps as the mage pauses to nip at a nipple, teasing at it with his teeth. 

Dorian smirks just before he captures his lips in a searching, desperate kiss. He moans into Dorian’s mouth as a well-oiled finger slips between his cheeks and teases at his entrance. He spreads wider, pushing his hips up to take more inside of him but Dorian’s thighs are pressing against his, keeping him pinned to the bed. 

“Impatient, I see,” Dorian tsks, removing the finger and he knows he how he whimpers and whines at the loss. Before he can open his mouth to complain it’s back inside of him, re-oiled and soon joined by another. He groans, tensing involuntarily around the sensation and he’s hard now, so hard that he squirms against the mattress under Dorian’s weight for a bit of relief. 

Two fingers now. Dorian curls each one inside of him and skillfully finds _just_ the right spot that makes him whine and arch his back, pushing his hips up into the mage’s hand. A third well-oiled finger rubs at his entrance, traces the curves of it until he relaxes, opens enough to let it through. 

“Dorian… please?” He angles his hips up, folding his knees into his chest and hooking them tight with his arms. 

“So greedy,” Dorian chuckles as he gives one final, slow thrust with his fingers. And then there’s more as Dorian’s well-oiled cock teases at him, pressing just barely into him before pulling out again. 

Cullen growls in frustration, hands grasping at Dorian’s arms as he tries to pull him back towards him but Dorian is too strong.  
“Do you know how much I love seeing you like this?” Dorian whispers, leaning forwards to kiss Cullen’s abdomen. The man tenses beneath him and he can’t help but smile. “Desperate and vulnerable, needy and all for me.” 

Dorian finally slides into him fully with a wave of bliss that claims him, rocking every inch of his body with pleasure. Cullen knows he cries out but to whom he can’t recall. Not to the Maker, maybe he just whimpers Dorian’s name over and over again, each repetition growing until he stifles a noise more pleasure than shock. 

He’s filled so entirely that he can’t breathe and this time, at least, it’s good. 

He raises up on his elbows, reaching for Dorian’s lips, teeth grazing at the mage’s throat as he works his way up to his mouth. He kisses him, again and again until they’re both breathless; Dorian continuing his slow, steady thrusts and Cullen grasping at the back of his neck, his hair, fingernails scraping against soft skin; anything he can to mark the mage as _his_. 

A soft stream of Tevene escapes the mage as Cullen’s fingers dig deep into his shoulder blade; he’ll have a mark in the morning, four perfect crescent moons impaled into his skin. He thrusts faster, a hand on Cullen’s hipbone, pressing the man back into the mattress. Again and again Dorian thrusts into him until he spills over with a strangled sob, muffling the sound into Cullen’s shoulder. 

He’s about to buck his hips again when Dorian’s lips are around his cock, sucking playfully at the head until he twitches and whines under the mage’s ministrations. 

“Dorian, I… I don’t know how long…” Dorian shushes him as he takes Cullen’s length fully into his mouth, letting him push forward until he juts up against the back of Dorian’s throat. 

He groans as he tries to stay still, letting Dorian set the pace but each long suck pulls him further into the mage’s mouth. He fists his fingers around the pillows, willing himself to stay in place as Dorian gives one long lick of up his shaft, closing and tightening again around his head, teasing with his teeth as he swallows back a yelp. 

“ _Oh fuck_ …” he whimpers and he feels Dorian smile around him, the tightening of his mouth against his length. 

He tries to stop it, tenses deep within himself but it’s too late and he reaches his peak, spilling into Dorian’s mouth with too many pulses of his hips. Dorian smiles and swallows him down, one mouthful and then the next as though he were savouring every drop. As Cullen collapses back against the headboard Dorian licks his lips and smiles. 

“Better?” He asks as he leans in to kiss Cullen’s lips again, an arc of electric current flickering between them. 

“Much,” Cullen grins as he grabs at Dorian’s waist, rolling him over and into his arms. It may be morning but all he wants to do is slip back into dreams, this time with Dorian at his side.

"Dorian?" He whispers against the mage's neck.

Dorian makes a small questioning sound, nearly on the edge of sleep. 

"I think I love you," Cullen admits before the moment can slip away. 

Dorian's silent for a moment as he settles in against the curve of his hips. Just as Cullen's breathing starts to slow, as he slips into sleep he whispers into the crisp morning air. "I think I love you too, Amatus."


End file.
